The ‘I’ of the Storm

A Mindgame through Time


by

Steven J. Nixall


2013 Edition
Copyright 2010 by Steven J. Nixall
(Legal name: Steven J. Shupe)


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A MINDGAME TO REMEMBRANCE
Awakening to Spirit’s Purpose
THE ‘I’ OF THE STORM
A Mindgame through Time
DREAM ON TO FREEDOM
A Mindgame Climax
THE MINDGAME TRILOGY
Spiritual Awakening, Soulful Remembrance, and an Elusive Time Being
THE NOW OR NEVER
Amnesia for Fun and Prophet – A Mindgame Prequel

Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
The author and his books
Excerpt from “Dream On to Freedom”

CHAPTER 1

Only the Truth, Pa


The room is small, the setting unfamiliar as you gaze in confusion at four bare walls. Bewilderment turns to fear as you realize your quarters have no door. Suddenly a deep, disembodied voice commands, “Write this down! Satisfy your day to die. 937 days.”
You awaken in a peculiar bed where pen and paper conveniently await your use. Immediately you write the dreamtime message then pause, puzzled by the unfamiliar handwriting that just flowed from your hand. Confusion reigns until the commanding voice again booms, “Write this down! Satisfy your day to die. 937 days.”
This time you wake up to a familiar cabin in the Colorado Rockies, feeling fully lucid and intrigued by the message that just arrived via special delivery in the inbox of your mind. Although you have often worked with dreams in the past in order to explore the realm of consciousness, never before have you had a dream-within-a-dream or one in which a message was delivered in such dramatic fashion.
Dutifully, you rise from bed and write down the missive: Satisfy your day to die. Yes, you have long known that death of the grasping ego, of your comfortable self-image lurks in waiting somewhere along the spiritual path. But does this message imply that this ego death is all that remains to achieve, the only condition left to satisfy as you reach the end of the trail?
So it seems, as you head from bedroom to kitchen to fix a cup of tea. While water heats, you ponder the ramifications that all prerequisites for your ego death are complete. No more meditation retreats are required. No more esoteric healing sessions to undertake. No more prodding and probing the mind to extract answers to hidden mysteries, a process often accompanied by angst in trying to identify the next step in the spiritual journey. All is done. Just surrender to the impending death of your limited persona.
A sense of freedom washes over you as this notion takes hold in your mind. But, in a few hours, when the full implications of the message burst into crystal clarity, you will weep like never before.
KINDLY PARDON MY PROMISCUOUS use of the word ‘you’, particularly as the naked truth of one’s death is broached. Of course it was not you who dreamed this message or who cried inconsolably as a result. You are likely ensconced in cozy setting, devoid of angst and well-satisfied with the moment as you begin reading a new book.
The abovementioned ‘you’ refers instead to the former self-identity that used to occupy this human body, this lanky vessel that is currently typing these sentences. This self-image that for decades was deemed ‘mine’ started losing its grip after coming to know itself as a hungry ghost of ego roaming the earth in search of fulfillment, grand quests, and more of anything to satisfy its desires. And, gratefully, it flew the coop.
Yes, by grace, this false self-concept died through a process that did in fact take another 937 days to complete—followed by a few months time for some frenetic death throes and lingering self-pity to swirl into the ethers of the high Himalayas. What then remains to now occupy this body-mind and to ride herd on the current writing process? ‘Tis Eye.
For the moment, however, let us return to the notion of you, specifically to the you holding these pages and reading these words. You are, as perceived from my distant vantage point, a wonderfully-crafted vessel of perception giving form to a unique, diverse, and dynamic universe. That universe springs into existence before your very eyes upon awakening each morning, expanding and evolving while a plethora of daily scenes and sensations flood into your awareness and take form in your mind. Filtered through your individual history, emotions, and location, your perceived world is unique in detail, although it is but one of many such parallel universes observed through seven billion personal points of reference on earth. And in the minds of others, you are a secondary character at best, part of the supporting cast occasionally taking form in their perceptions.
But in the known universe that forms each dawn with your opening of eyes, you are the overseeing awareness, the creative force itself. And the human character that you perceive daily acting out through your body-mind is the star of this world—the one character who is always there on the earthly stage that you watch, the one giving your awareness, your consciousness, direct experiences of the human condition. A fascinating production, is it not?
What makes it even more interesting is that in the infancy of this personal play, your consciousness began to identify with this leading actor as itself, as your human self-identity. Hence the proverbial Fall from paradise occurred when you. as pure awareness, tumbled from your heavenly perch by mistaking yourself for the individual being perceived. Then the real tragicomedy took center stage as you started identifying with a large blob of protoplasm and taking personally its associated thoughts, emotions, desires, fears, and survivalist tendencies. And this convoluted self-identity, this hungry ghost, daily plays out its human role just as it was designed to do—with the bitter, bland, and sweet all being part of a grand banquet giving consciousness various tastes of earthly duality. Multiply this experience by seven billion taste buds, and it’s one hell of a smorgasbord for our collective experience.
The fact that you have chosen to examine this book provides a clue that maybe, just maybe you grow tired of serving this perfect madness of earthly existence, of identifying with the human self-image and dancing to its seductive tune. Perhaps you are playing out your own version of a Mindgame to Remembrance to reclaim your true heritage as pure awareness, as oneness of spirit, as the Eye giving form to the void, or whatever imagery you use to express the essence of your true, total self beyond your conditioned self-image as a personal blob of protoplasm (built-in mind optional).
If so, certainly the character whom we observed in the opening paragraphs in his Colorado cabin could easily identify with your attitude. Let us invite this persona, my old self-identity, to join the narrative to describe firsthand some of the history leading to his demise—if his ghost can resurrect sufficiently from the ethers into which he dissolved. Presto change-o, and…
YES, THIS PERSONAL ‘I’ of the storm can still materialize from the realm of memory, from the decades of my swirling through life as a son, a student, an environmental engineer, a lover, a lawyer, a loser. All of that self-identity is intact in memory. So tales I can tell, scenes I can paint of a man full of himself, full of self-importance, of a self-image that wanted to save the world and to grow in service and spirit. Indeed, I remember it well—like it was a dream, like in a prison, as if lost in a strange play in which I forgot that I was simply acting a role thus I could not escape the illusion.
At the moment, my illusory world of perception is of words taking form on glowing screen. Looking up from the computer and out the window I spy layers of jagged rock rising to over 20,000 feet where April snows cover Himalayan peaks. The soothing rumble of the Spiti River fills my ears, complemented by the drumming and chanting of an elderly couple in the adjacent farmhouse who daily practice their Tibetan Buddhist rituals.
As it has in summers past, my universe takes form in Spiti Valley of the far north of India. My essence is back in isolation to watch the mind amidst the silence and utter solitude available here. No more following some spiritual quest or trying to help a world that needs no fixing. No more chasing the abstract desires of a hungry ghost. Now, existence simply meets the bare necessities of the body while watching the dreamscapes of the mind; my life nudged further from the play of humanity, further into the nothingness beyond the realm of mind.
Nothingness. Alienation. Annihilation. These are the terms that consciousness seems to be currently exploring through this human vessel situated in Himalayan expanse. I first glimpsed that sense of annihilation eight years ago on the afternoon after receiving the dreamtime message, Satisfy your day to die. The communiqué at first proved uplifting and liberating as I sipped morning tea while gazing from Colorado cabin at the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The message fit well with my spiritual self-identity and the many times I had heard from psychic friends that this was my last incarnation on Earth. My spiritual ego, amidst its sense of self-importance and service, could easily imagine my soul, at lifetime’s end, being flung into the heavens as an ascended master or archangel to help shepherd earthbound mortals to their ultimate liberation from duality.
That Colorado afternoon, however, I got my comeuppance. Reclining in cushioned chair with eyes closed pondering the impending ego death and its liberating effect on my journey of spirit, a sudden picture of my soul flashed in mind’s eye. It was not a pretty sight. The vision was of a twisted creature of vaguely human form with wings that looked more bat-like than angelic since most feathers had fallen. The bony creature, this sorry representation of my soul, was sprawled helplessly in the corner of a bare room gasping its final breaths.
I opened my eyes in shock, suddenly aware that my ‘day to die’ meant annihilation of all that I ever thought myself to be—body, mind, and soul. Then a sense of numerous human lifetimes somehow entered my awareness. In a single moment, I experienced an ageless cycle of chasing some nebulous spiritual goal, of searching for God, of helping others, of trying to find enlightenment. And the end had come. Nothing left to do but die, to terminate this mad cycle, this endless search of Mind looking for meaning and purpose. Satisfy your day to die. Enter into the nothingness.
And I wept like never before, overwhelmed by grief for lifetimes of loss, for an impending death beyond what I had ever imagined.

- THE RESURRECTION –
A first breath. And a second. An infilling of air, of life, of new experience. The heart flutters then settles into steady rhythm. Eyelids, too, quiver then shut tightly against early morning sun. Slowly they open, squint and let in color and shape, motion and wonder. The golden brown of rippling wheat leads to green oak; a snow-capped peak looms in the distance. Tears flow as the awakening newborn looks upon the landscape with awe and joy. He pauses to wipe the tears with his fingers, to feel their moisture against his skin, to taste the salty wetness on his tongue for the first time.
The young man laughs in delight but abruptly stops, startled by this involuntary sound his new body makes. Silence prevails as he senses the weight of his muscular form pressing into the ground through his feet. He tentatively lifts a leg to take a first step, and then another and another until teetering off balance and falling headlong into the wheat. Laughter again bursts from his lungs, but this time he enjoys the new phenomenon until his shaking vessel settles into quiescence face-down in the field.
The man’s body remains still while his consciousness senses the beat of his heart against the ground. The rich smell of life and death, of growth and decay, rises from soil into his nostrils. He grabs two handfuls of dirt in order to explore the feeling of the land, to experience the tensing of muscles in his new world of flesh and blood. Fascinating. Exhilarating. No amount of study, the new arrival concludes, could have prepared him for this experience of being housed within a biological vessel. He lies motionless, alert, sensing cool air enter his nose and the warmth flowing out. The breath of life, the fullness of heart, the sky above, the earth below.
The word earth misleads, however, for earth is not what our voyageur holds in his hands. That term is from another world where Earth is the current label for planet and soil. The world in our tale is called Ki-ya, the name that the native people, the Guardians, gave to their planet long ago.
Our traveler is on Ki-ya’s revolving orb. He is not yet in the territory of the Guardians tribes, however, for they live in the Interior of the continent. His emergence took place in the western homeland of the Planters, a smallish people of close-knit clans who farm the fertile valleys of this region. One Planter, an elder named Topo, is walking to his ripe wheat with sickle in hand this clear morning. He suddenly spies movement as he approaches the field. And so the cycle begins.
“WHAT IN BLAZES are you doing in my wheat?” the little Planter shouts at the man struggling to his feet. “Isn’t it enough that you repossessed my mechanical combine right before harvest?”
“I…I…” the young fellow stammers trying to find his unused voice.
With sickle held with both hands in front of him, the farmer stops a few steps from the speechless intruder. He squints through small eyes at the tall stranger and relaxes slightly. “Okay, I see you aren’t one of those mongrels from the bank. But who are you and why are you trampling my wheat?”
After clearing his throat, the young man answers, “I am a candidate.”
“A what?”
The stranger searches for a better word to explain himself and continues, “I am a student, a candidate for an advanced degree in MacroGeology.”
Topo lowers the sickle and scratches his chin. “Well, I’d venture that my wheat field is a strange place to be studying geology, and without my permission to boot.”
The Candidate pulls a hand-sized electronic devise from his pocket, aims it at the single large mountain on the horizon, and explains, “That volcano drew me to the area. The readings say it’s about to erupt; so being here is part of my thesis research.”
“Volcano!” Topo exclaims incredulously. “Satin Peak is just a plain old mountain, son. You’ve been sold a false bill of goods with that one,” he concludes indicating the instrument in the intruder’s hands.
“Maybe so,” the young man demurs, not wanting to contradict the elder. “I’ve come on a long journey and perhaps my vibracorder was damaged.”
Topo remarks with additional authority, “Yep, I knew you weren’t from here with those strange clothes and that dialect of yours. An Outlander from across the sea, right?”
“I am a foreigner, yes,” the Candidate answers obtusely as he retrieves his travel bag from the ground. “And I apologize for my intrusion into your field.”
The farmer relaxes fully and offers the visitor a hand to shake. “We Planters may be cautious, but we never turn away a stranger in need. And from the way you were staggering through my wheat, you apparently are in need, friend.”
“Thanks, I am a bit stiff this morning,” the new arrival responds while using the little man’s sturdy arm for support as they walk together towards a farmhouse.
After a few dozen steps, the Candidate’s body masters the mechanics of walking and he lets go of assistance. When they arrive at the front porch, Topo shouts, “Hey Ma, look what I found in the field this morning.”
Dora strides briskly into the living room wiping her hands on an apron. The little woman stops dead in her tracks as she looks up at the stranger filling the doorway. “Oh my, you caught yourself a big one, Pa.” She winks at the Candidate and continues, “Welcome to our home, son. May I offer you a cool beverage?”
“Certainly you may if you wish,” he replies cheerily in literal, if naïve, response to the question.
Dora tries again, “Okay, do you want a cold drink?”
“Yes, thank you,” the guest answers while being offered a seat by Topo.
The old farmer pulls up a chair next to the Candidate and hollers into the kitchen at Dora, “I was just telling this nice young man that we Planters always like to help needy strangers.”
Dora pops back into the living room handing her guest a glass of juice along with the advice, “Don’t be fooled by Pa sweet-talking you. He’s just looking for extra hands to help with the harvest now that we’ve lost our motorized combine.”
“But—”
Topo is cut off by Dora’s stern look. “Only the truth, Pa,” she admonishes.
“Okay, so maybe I was hoping that a strong young feller could hang around for a few days while we scythe wheat together.” He turns to address the visitor, “You could have our spare room, point your gizmo at Mount Satin all you want, and get some exercise harvesting. Sorry we can’t pay much, but Ma’s cooking is guaranteed to satisfy.”
The Candidate takes a moment to think before answering, “Actually, spending a couple of days to learn the lay of the land would be very useful to my research project. As an outsider, I’d appreciate hearing about local customs and such if you—”
“Great!” Topo exclaims. “With that settled, let’s get ready for a day in the field.” The excited farmer pulls the Candidate to his feet and continues, “Then this evening, you can get a good dose of Planter culture by attending our meeting to protest the way the bank foreclosed on our equipment right before harvest.”
As Topo leads the young man to his room, Dora adds, “A woman from the environmental Advocates will be speaking there tonight as well, so you might learn a lot.”
THAT YOU MIGHT, CANDIDATE, that you might. For you have much to learn about this world, and not just its MacroGeology. You think that you are here for the quakes, the volcanic eruptions, and the wobbling axis of this planet; a research task entailing a week or two depending upon Ki-ya’s whims. But living in a biological vessel—taking on a body and a name in the world of flesh—can lead to all manner of surprise. Many souls have learned this painful and exhilarating lesson well, and so shall you in time. So hang on for the ride of your life. Bid adieu to expectations and we will watch together where your research shall lead.

CHAPTER 2

The Muted Wallflower has a Good Teacher Showing Him the Steps


Ah, what joy to awaken to another day of unfettered freedom of thought, to grab the laptop from bedside nightstand and stretch one’s arms and imagination. The distant rumble of the Spiti River is the only sound of greeting this morn, complemented now by a soft tapping of computer keys.
I trust you have no objection to serving as my imaginary playmate, as an attentive reader on this wordy exploration beyond the known self and world. Not surprisingly, siblings, friends, and other tangible folks have shown little receptivity to my sharing a reality in which one’s treasured self-identity is actually a false construct that must dissolve in order to liberate to full existence. Moving my index finger as a little puppet who announces, “Your brother doesn’t live here anymore,” seemed to do little to help their understanding of the mystical path.
Nope, there is no quick or easy way to explain to the typical Western mind the liberating effect of losing one’s human self-concept. But you are not typical, are you my adventuresome and courageous playmate? I can picture you now with book in hand, wind in your hair, ready to boldly go where no grasping ego can tread, eager to discard a lifetime of false conditioning that keeps you grounded to the mundane. You duck into nearby phone booth to shed your bland suit and distorting eyeglasses, emerging swathed in bright color to leap gracefully into the heavens. Up, up, and away—to destination unknown.
So let us flex our mental muscles from lofty heights and look down at the past which, gratefully, failed to keep us fully grounded to the norm. When first joining the ranks of humanity via birth canal and a slap on the fanny, our infant bodies entered the metropolis with no concept of self. That concept, however, was already forming within parental minds as they bestowed an appropriate name on our bawling vessel to fit their expectations of the persona-to-be, and shaped the infant with their particular values, hopes, and hang-ups.
By the babe’s second year, this artificial construct of ‘self’ was successfully implanted into the fleshy vessel where it took on a life of its own. And my-oh-my, did we not defend this sense of self, our shining self-image and its possessions, positions, and personality to the hilt? Gazing back upon my persona’s course through decades past, I cringe at the smoldering wake of chaos left by my identity’s struggle for survival against all who dared threaten its self-importance and comforts.
Yet how strange to staunchly defend something so arbitrary in form. What if little Ronnie Reagan as a newborn had been accidently swapped at the hospital with the infant of visiting Soviet diplomats? Or consider if you had been adopted at day-one and taken to live with your new parents in Mongolia or Botswana or Cleveland. No doubt, you would be equally embracive of your alternative self-identity and faithfully defending its name, religion, loved ones, cattle, yurts, and sports teams that mean nothing to you now.
In short, our seemingly rock-solid sense of self is a mere construct built from an arbitrary external environment, shaped by parental desires, honed by fleeting societal values, and colored by certain inherent genetic traits determined by the fastest of millions of sperm gyrating towards Mum’s ovum of the month. And I ask while throwing studded gauntlet at your feet—is that the real you, is that all you truly be?
“Nay!” you of course shout in disdain at such a silly proposition, so loudly I can hear you across the space-time continuum from whence you now read. And I am comforted, yea verily, thrilled to have you as an understanding ally—albeit a distant one—as my known self implodes into a mere point of perception, shrinking into the pure awareness we knew as babes before our budding self-identity distorted the view of our wondrous world via its fears, hopes, control, and unending desires. Perhaps that is why that wise Jesus fellow encouraged folks to become again as a little child to enter the kingdom of heaven. Or why the Buddha suggested a return to oneness, to nirvana, by breaking our attachment to human desire.
Just some food for thought as we journey into a jungle of new paradigms and shifting realities. And now to listen for the ancient calling through the dense foliage—perhaps our tribe of angels is shouting encouragement, beckoning us homeward to oneness from this thicket of earthly duality. I listen closely but hear only riverine flow and a rising wind blowing past bare rock. Former dreams of angelic reunions and heavenly homes seem distant today in Himalayan isolation.
Welcome the annihilation. Neutralize your humanity. Free the mind. That is the calling, the summons that drew me to Spiti Valley this spring. That is the impulse that compels me now to sit in solitude, to silently watch the mind, to write without boundaries, perhaps to give form to new worlds unfolding.
The ego death occurred a few years back with the loss of my self-identity and with the discovery of the universal Awareness underlying my perception of life. But deeper levels and subtle meanings of the command to die are yet to be revealed. And the urge this week to begin writing a new book seems to be a key part of the process. Maybe a catharsis, a cleansing is needed to drop some old carry-on baggage prior to takeoff. Or some new insights, patterns, and perspective are required that will come to light through fingers playing across computer keyboard.
Certainly this has happened during my past book composition, facilitated greatly when the realm of imagination is tapped to open the door to subtle wisdom lying quietly beneath the noisy chatter of the logical mind. That is why The Resurrection suddenly appeared in the first chapter text, the beginning of a little side trip of the imagination into the world of Ki-ya which, with luck, will unveil a deeper understanding into the ongoing cycles in this earthly theater of creation and destruction.
Enter the Advocate, stage left.

- THE ADVOCATE -
The meeting hall is hot, the presence of so many people is disorienting. But the Candidate has learned much during his first evening on Ki-ya while sitting between Dora and Topo. A nervous bank manager attempted to field tough questions, while Planter after Planter rose to tell of their plight, their sad stories of overextended credit, rising costs of production, and now, the bank foreclosing on loans for equipment and supplies.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” one baffled farmer declares as he looks imploringly at the bank representative. “You take away our means of paying back the loans just when we’re ready to harvest.”
“Oh, it makes sense all right,” another Planter interjects angrily, “if you realize that the bankers and their cronies plan to take over the farming business and turn us all into serfs!” A number of irate Planters jump to their feet in response, shouting and waving their fists at the harried-looking bank manager.
He reluctantly stands and puts both hands up to quiet the crowd. “Come on folks,” the banker pleads, “it’s the government, not me, who makes financial policies for the Federation. This year, the Ruling Council has seen fit to require timely payment of delinquent loans and my bank must enforce that decree. It’s that simple. And I’m genuinely sorry that it creates hardships for my good neighbors and friends here.”
The hall is silent for a moment until the clan elder who convened the meeting rises from his chair to speak. “Well, Philo, I don’t know if it’s really that simple, but we do thank you for coming out tonight to answer our questions and hear our pleas.” The elder then turns to the crowd to announce, “We’ll call an end to this confab now, folks, since I know you are eager to visit with your neighbors and have a little dance. But first, an environmental Advocate has asked to speak, so if you would kindly give her a moment’s attention.”
The Candidate is surprised to see a majority of the Planters get up from their seats and pay no attention whatsoever as the Advocate speaker takes the podium. Despite the growing noise, the woman begins talking. “I know that the Planters and Advocates have not always seen eye to eye as my group has tried to protect the natural environment. But as Advocates for Ki-ya, we care about the quality of life for the planet and for all her people. So we understand the problems you face as farmers and also we grasp how important you are to our nation’s future.”
The Advocate takes a moment to look directly at the few Planters who are paying attention in the audience. “Unlike the urbanites who have capitulated to government control, you family farmers still hold a crucial bond with the land and carry this innate power in your lives. So do the Guardian tribes of the Interior who maintain ties with the spirits of nature to help maintain Ki-ya in balance. We environmental Advocates, as well, are keeping this power alive by protecting what is left of flowing water, clean air, open land, natural forests, and the like.”
The woman now must shout to be heard above the musical instruments being tuned in preparation for the dance. “The Ruling Council understands that we three groups—the Planters, Guardians, and Advocates—are the only remaining hurdles to their consolidation of power. If they can break us, they can break the last ties that people have to the land, to freedom, to the democracy that we must…oh, hell,” she concludes as she throws her hands in the air.
The Advocate gives a resigned half-smile to the handful of Planters who still are attempting to listen to her above the din in the hall. She steps down from the podium looking discouraged as she shouts theatrically, “Let the dance begin!” And it does, with great enthusiasm.
The Candidate helps to move chairs to the side and quickly escapes to sit in the far corner to avoid getting caught in the swirl of motion that overtakes the hall. He watches with fascination as the Planters join in pairs, fours, and eights to dance in intricate patterns guided by melodic tunes and the booming voice of a man calling out steps. The attentive visitor becomes so mesmerized by the swirling bodies that he does not notice the approach of the Advocate until she is standing next to him. Looking down at the seated man she states, “We environmental Advocates are known for our compassion for all species, including for the great muted wallflower found sitting in dark corners of dance halls.”
The startled Candidate gazes up at the large woman who continues speaking with a smile, “Plus, you are the only gentleman here who is of sufficient stature to look me in the eye on the dance floor.”
The young man is unable to find appropriate words as he stares dumbly at the woman. She shakes her head and speaks again, “Come now, dear fellow, this is when you’re supposed to say something equally clever that accepts my offer to dance.”
The Candidate finally stammers in way of introduction, “I’m a MacroGeology student.”
“Well, that hardly qualifies as a witty rejoinder, but judging by your dialect,” the Advocate continues as she sits by the timid man, “you’re an Outlander and are deficient in the nuances of our primary language in the great Federation of Endlandius.”
“True,” he replies, finally able to answer coherently, “and my understanding of just about everything in your country is lacking at the moment.”
“Ah, so an eager student has journeyed from across the sea to study in our fair land. But why study MacroGeology here on the continent of the Federation?” the woman inquires. “Can’t you investigate fault lines, continental drift, vulcanology, and all that stuff back home?”
“Not like here,” the Candidate replies, glad to be addressing a familiar topic. “Research indicates that your area is the epicenter of some major impending activity, and I came here to study the action.”
“What, you have a crystal ball to show you where the next big quake is going to hit?” she asks with a frown.
“Better than that,” he quickly responds, pleased to show off the vibracorder that he pulls from his pocket. “This device can detect the frequencies of subtle planetary energies, deep magma movement, continental plate shifts, and other vibrational indicators of major events that will soon occur.” The enthusiastic researcher leans over to show the Advocate numbers on the vibracorder that make no sense to her. The Candidate continues as he points to the readings, “I’m most intrigued by this low frequency vibration, this ‘hum’ of sorts, that emanates strongly from the Interior of your continent.”
“And I’m most intrigued that two people can sit here chatting about MacroGeology while passing up a chance to dance,” the woman declares as she grabs the man’s hand and pulls him towards the dance floor. “Just relax, Outlander,” she states in reaction to his hesitancy. “When you’re with a partner who knows what she’s doing, these dances are a breeze.”
The Advocate indeed knows the moves well, and the shy newcomer’s motor skills improve with each dance while learning to reel and swing. The Candidate’s newly awakened senses are filled by the cadence of stamping feet, the lilt of a dozen fiddles, and the heat and scent of a hundred sweating Planters that pack the hall. These—and the firm press of a woman against his body—cast the Candidate into sensations that he never could have imagined in his homeland. His chest feels close to bursting as the fullness of life and dance and heat and laughter mix in his fast-beating heart.
JOY, IT IS CALLED, CANDIDATE. Joy in your heart—and passion. You have had a first taste of the human experience that makes it all worthwhile, the joy that keeps people willing to awaken to another day in the world of flesh and toil. These moments of fullness provide a sense of connection to something that is worth pursuing, a pleasure in living, a hope that behind the daily travail lies a revelation of laughter in which this feeling of wholeness will never end. So embrace it while you can, for the short time that your heart beats on this spinning orb—and while your body swirls with a woman in your arms…
The last dance of the evening winds down in tempo as the leader calls out final instructions to scores of twirling couples, “So kick your heels and lift your slips, then kiss your partner on the lips!”
Without hesitation, the Advocate dutifully responds with an enthusiastic smack on the startled Candidate’s mouth. The young man feels the surprising sensation of the kiss down to the pit of his stomach as he stares at the self-confident woman.
“Now don’t just stand there gawking like you’ve never kissed before,” she says with a laugh. “You Outlanders are supposed to be culturally deprived relative to we privileged citizens of Endlandius. But the way you took to dancing tells me you know a thing or two about passion.”
The Candidate regains his composure and replies, “Well, the muted wallflower had a good teacher showing him the steps. Thanks for the lesson, Advocate.”
“The name is Marla. And yours?”
The foreign visitor had previously considered how to address this question. “It’s hard to put my name into your language.” He then asks with a smile, “In your homeland, what do you think would be a good name for me?”
Marla cogitates a moment before replying, “Mingo.”
“Mingo? Why so?”
“Mingo is an affectionate nickname that Planters call their young sons,” she explains while playfully tweaking the tall man’s cheek, “and you have this freshness, this innocence about you almost like a little boy who is discovering the world for the first time. I find it rather endearing, actually.”
She steps forward to give the Candidate a quick hug then whispers conspiratorially, “But I mustn’t scandalize the Planters with a public display of affection. I’m trying to form an alliance between them, the Advocates, and the Guardians.”
“So I gathered from your abbreviated speech.”
“I’m afraid that my sorry speaking effort this evening bore no fruit, and I’m not sure where to turn next,” Marla confesses.
Mingo brightens and suggests, “Maybe you could get a group of Advocate volunteers to help with the harvest. All these Planters who had their mechanical harvesters repossessed could really use a hand to salvage this year’s crop.”
Marla nods her head as she gives her partner an admiring look. “Not bad, my studious Outlander, not a bad idea at all. Getting Advocates to help in the fields would generate plenty of good will, and it would provide opportunity for dialogue as the Planters and environmentalists work side by side for the first time,” she concludes while abruptly turning to suggest the idea to the clan elder before he leaves the hall.
“Plus,” Mingo calls out as Marla approaches the old farmer, “I was hoping maybe we could work together in Topo’s field and you could teach me more tomorrow.”
Without turning around, Marla lifts her hand in acknowledgment, leaving Mingo wondering what the future will hold for a dedicated Advocate and for a Candidate far from home.

CHAPTER 3

These Blisters Didn’t Come from Pushing Buttons


Oh Marla, my hero. Advocate Marla, where were you in my youth when I needed you? We could have shared saddle to ride together into the fray with freshly minted diplomas and our fervor to save the world. Huddling together for warmth during the 1970’s energy crisis, we would have exposed those bastards responsible for the phony oil shortage and, no doubt, successfully lobbied Congress to fund natural energy projects in lieu of the destructive Alaska pipeline. Our solar-powered light would have provided a beacon of truth, our compassion the balm to heal the Sixties dove of peace, her left wing pierced by the slings and arrows of cupidity.
Then in the go-go Eighties, when the rich got richer and the poor got ketchup as a new vegetable in the Federal lunch program, what a difference we could have made together. With your public speaking skills and my dogged determination we’d have been an unstoppable moral force to plug the Trickle-Down Theory and instead create a healthy economy and quality of life from the grassroots up. Holding hands, we’d dream together of subsidies for organic family farms, of Native American sovereignty, of corporate bonuses going to hourly wage-earners to reward an honest day’s labor.
Oh, sweet Marla, and if only you had been there in the roaring 90’s to save me from shifting realties. While the Berlin Wall crumbled and apartheid fell, I barely heard their tumble as my balloon sailed into the ethers of spiritual quests and metaphysic phenomena. Why could you not have grasped my tether as the new millennium found me floating ever further from the norm, away from human values, quests, and even from the self-identity I once held dear?
Now it is too late. You are with Mingo, and I with graying temple and wrinkled brow cannot hope to compete with that cosmic stud muffin. Yes, he is a bit naïve and immature, but with your gentle guiding hand he will competently negotiate his way through Ki-ya, wielding his vibracorder while getting swept up by the events of planetary upheaval. Or so it shall pass if the events foreseen in mind’s eye indeed take form.
ACTUALLY, MARLA’S ADVENTURES with Mingo first appeared in my psyche in early 1990 at the beginning of my supposed twelve-month sabbatical that is now in its twenty-first year. Instead of reading professional journals during the first month of respite from my consulting business, I read the Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien. (Not to be confused with the cinematic trilogy of the same name based on the screenplay, it would seem, by W.W.F. Tolkien with orcs and villains modeled after Wrestlemania characters, and over-the-top violence substituting for the nuances of good storytelling and fantasy. But what the hey, Peter Jackson got a best director Oscar and I am the one out of touch in the boondocks feeling body-slammed by the Masked Eliminator.)
Be that as it may, the Tolkien novels planted a seed in my imagination which quickly sprouted into a world of Ki-ya on the brink of planetary change. I spent the next several months of 1990 traveling the natural landscape of the American West in trusty van, scouting out settings on which to base scenes for the Ki-ya story that was unfolding in my mind. Yellowstone Park, Yosemite Valley, the Great Salt Lake, Mount Saint Helens, and more scenic beauty provided inspiration for creative juices to flow. Then in October of that year, with Ki-ya’s story well-developed and ready for composition, I arrived in Crestone, Colorado, the model setting for the plot’s anticipated climax.
And my van abruptly died, marking a low point in the vehicular journey but one that soon led to peak experiences in the mystical path as new worlds emerged—some in new Crestone cabin, others in new dimensions of reality, and a few formed in word and rhyme.

- MOUNT SATIN -
Mount Satin, smooth as silk with slopes that gently rise in peak to speak of things to come. Forbidding, foreboding, foretelling the coding of hidden messages lying underground, ready to awake and shake from long dormancy. Not a gentle stretching to the morn, but a great explosion to shatter hill and dale, to fill forest and swale with the gray of falling ash. Timber tossed, snapped and lost from roots that hold to trembling soil as Ki-ya adjusts to the forces flowing inside her great mass.
Two more peaceful dawns shall rise, however, before volcanic fury explodes. Two more times a sun shall promise a day of warmth and stability upon the spinning sphere. A place where harvest calls and ripeness falls to the steady swing of sickle. Planters once again wield old tools to harvest wheat, their modern machines lost to debt as a bank forecloses and a Council discloses its intent to tighten the grip of control that sweeps across Endlandius. Environmental Advocates join the toil in field, hoping to yield an alliance with farmers to fight the tide that swells from Council lairs. Pairs of workers dot the wheatscape below Mount Satin—a Planter swings in steady rhythm to scythe stalks to the ground; an Advocate sweats behind to bundle and trundle them to the tractor. Cooperation a factor in bringing in the sheaves, a swipe and a heave from new allies to salvage a crop together.
In one field, Marla follows behind Dora’s swift stroke, while Topo and Mingo form another pair in this race to harvest the wheat before overly-ripe grains fall to waste. The farmer wipes a sweaty brow as he lowers his sickle and turns to his novice field hand. “Well, my boy, I bet you’ve found some new muscles after two days of real labor,” asserts the elder Planter. “This is a far cry from sitting on your rear listening to lectures in a comfortable MacroGeology hall, wouldn’t you agree?”
The panting young man nods as he ties another sheaf of wheat. “I could use a little break,” Mingo confesses, dropping to the ground with a thud.
Topo releases a hearty laugh and announces, “Then take one to gather your strength. Plus,” the Planter adds with a knowing smile as he lowers his voice, “a lunch break will give you a chance to visit with that Advocate gal who you’ve been eyeing all morning.”
“I—” Mingo starts to respond but Topo cuts him off with another loud laugh.
“Save your breath and denials, son. She’s walking over here right now.” Topo shifts his attention from Mingo to address the tall woman approaching through the field. “I sure want to thank you, Marla. Our clan was mighty grateful when you announced that Advocate volunteers would help us with the harvest.
“Glad to be of service,” Marla replies as she glances at the reclining Mingo. “I’m just sorry you got stuck with a worker who sits down on the job and makes you do all the work.”
“Yep,” Topo agrees with a playful frown at his assistant, “Mingo hasn’t budged all morning from that spot. He just keeps staring at his fancy vibra-gadget and muttering about some volcano erupting.”
Mingo rises to his feet and responds, “I do admit to often checking the readings for Mount Satin today. But these blisters didn’t come from pushing buttons.” He emphasizes his point by holding out both hands for Marla and Topo to see.
“Oh, my poor little Mingo,” Marla laments in mock sympathy as she pats his cheek.
“No problem,” Topo declares. “Ma can find bandages for them blisters while I wrestle up some lunch—and you two youngsters can catch your breath together.”
The little farmer abruptly heads for the house while Marla and Mingo walk toward the oaks at the edge of the field. “Do you really think that Mount Satin could be a volcano about to erupt?” the Advocate asks gazing at the snow-capped peak lying twenty miles in the distance. “It looks so peaceful.”
“Sel-Neh, the Smoking One,” Mingo replies while his eyes follow her gaze to the horizon. “That’s what the Guardians called Satin Peak a millennium ago. And my instrument readings indicate that it will again start smoking—and much more—within a day or two.”
Marla queries, “Have you done lots of this type of research before for your thesis?”
“Only from my studies at the university. I’ve waited a long time to begin field work, so was thrilled to get the call from my professor to say that conditions were now ripe.”
“Ripe for what?” the Advocate asks looking concerned.
Mingo reaches the grove and finds a comfortable place where the two can sit in the shade. “Don’t let me bore you with MacroGeology details in such a lovely spot,” he answers evasively. “Anyway, you’re supposed to play the teacher today, remember? I’ve got plenty of questions, too, about your country, its culture, rules, that sort of stuff.”
Marla sits next to the visitor. “What do you already know about the Federation of Endlandius, other than that one of our peaceful mountains is supposedly about to blow its top?”
“I know that we’re in the western part of your continent in the fertile valleys dominated by the Planters and separated from the Great Western Sea by the End Lands—the numerous islands and coastal lowlands that support the huge metropolis that is the hub of your civilization.”
“So far, so good,” Marla observes.
“And that the middle portion of your continent, the Interior you call it, is the sparsely-populated domain of the Guardian tribes, full of mountains, forests, and canyons. Beyond that are the Eastlands, the fertile plains and coastal forests that are governed by various regional authorities.”
Marla interrupts with a chuckle. “You are correct, Candidate, other than that last bit of information is about six hundred years out of date. I’m amazed that word of the formation of the Federation of Endlandius hasn’t reached you Outlanders across the sea.”
Mingo shrugs. “My people haven’t visited your homeland for about a thousand years. I apologize for my ignorance.”
“So which continent do you come from?” Marla asks the Candidate.
He parries with another question, “Do you mind if we focus on your continent for now? I really want to pick your brain for information before Topo and Dora return with lunch.” The Advocate acquiesces with a nod, so Mingo continues his query, “What can you tell me about the history of Endlandius?”
“It’s a fairly brief story, actually,” Marla replies. “As the western End Lands grew in riches and technology, the region outpaced its neighbors to the east and, in a bloodless assertion of authority six centuries ago, the End Land government decreed that all people of the continent came under its jurisdiction. Thus, the Federation of Endlandius was formed and has ruled without interruption since.”
The woman stretches out on the grass to gaze up through the tree branches. “The reign has been a fairly benevolent democracy for the most part, although three decades ago the Elites—as the rich folks in the Metropolis are called—engineered a power play to shift authority from the democratic congress to an appointed Ruling Council that they dominate.”
“And the citizens just let this power grab happen?” Mingo asks with concern.
Marla nods her head in response. “There’s nothing like plenty of consumer goods, telescreen shows, and the hover trolleys running on time to make the masses complacent—with an occasional dose of fear to maintain control. The only threat remaining to the Council’s complete consolidation of power is the self reliance and spiritual strength represented by the Guardian tribes, the Planter clans, and the Advocates attuned to Ki-ya’s natural force. None of us is directly attacking the authority of the Ruling Council, but the Elites fear that if we keep the bond between nature and people strong, eventually the pendulum will swing back to where rule based on money, consumerism, and fear will give way to the citizens’ inner strength to live in balance and to govern ourselves.”
“So the Council is trying to break the backs of these three groups?” posits Mingo.
“Right, by financially crippling the Planters, by assimilating the Guardian tribes into the mainstream culture, and by undermining the grass-roots support of the Advocates whenever we start getting strong enough to really make a difference in protecting the natural environment.”
Marla leans up to where the Candidate can see the frustration on her face as she continues the discourse. “Last year, we Advocates had real momentum going for positive change as membership swelled and support grew to stop the onslaught on the forests, to protect wilderness and, perhaps most importantly, to prevent a huge hydroelectric project from diverting all the water from Cascade Valley, the most beautiful natural wonder within easy access for the people of the End Land Metropolis.”
“I gather something bad happened,” Mingo says, encouraging the Advocate to continue her story.
“I’ll say. A mysterious explosion and fire destroyed the crystal chamber of End Land’s biggest power plant—arson secretly ordered, no doubt, by the Ruling Council to create an electrical shortage in the Metropolis. Nightly blackouts, energy rationing, industrial slowdowns that led to layoffs, and a clamor from the public for the Ruling Council to solve the problem. Power at Any Price became the new cultural mantra, and you can guess what happened to our momentum for environmental protection.”
“A contrived energy crises is born, and the flowing waters of Cascade Valley are history,” Mingo surmises.
“The waters are not diverted yet, but unless our protest demonstration scheduled for the end of this week at Cascade Falls makes some miraculous difference, the free-flowing waters will disappear when the new hydropower project is turned on.” Marla looks at Mingo with a wan smile. “Or maybe the Guardian prophecies will come true and Ki-ya will take matters into her own hands with a little MacroGeology trick or two.”
“How so?” asks the Candidate with interest perked at the mention of his specialty.
“Well, a Guardian shaman whom I periodically visit tells me just to relax; that all is unfolding as it should. The imbalances created by recent human actions are an important part of the wheel of life, of the natural cycles that our planet experiences. When the imbalances become too great, Ki-ya will respond by shrugging, the Guardian seer told me, which will cleanse the old world and open the door for the new to emerge. The shaman laughs at me for getting so concerned and working so hard to try to fight the imbalances created by greed, instead of just seeing them as part of the universal cycle of life.”
“Where both the constructive and destructive phases are equally important aspects in that timeless cycle,” Mingo adds with a nod of understanding.
Marla responds, “It sounds as if you’ve given this topic some thought in the past.”
“Let’s just say my thesis research involves Ki-ya’s shrug.”
Topo asks from behind as he and Dora arrive with lunch in tow, “What in creation is Ki-ya’s shrug?”
“The destructive phase in creation,” the Candidate replies, taking another look at Mount Satin looming on the horizon. “A little planetary cleansing.”

CHAPTER 4

Marla’s Excited Tent-mate Rushes through the Flap with his
Instrument Pointed Squarely at Mount Satin


A distant voice whispers to me in the darkness this early morn. No, it is not your voice, not a call from across our clumsy earthly dimensions of time and space. Nor can I quite make out the words. It is but a feeling, a sense of communion from a dimension that I sometimes glimpse in these quiet hours before dawn when the mind has yet to fully returned to the waking state from its nightly sojourns.
The voice seems now to beckon me forward into the unknown…or perhaps instead into the opposite direction, back to the familiar. Yes, it is a call to remembrance, to reclaim a world once known. I can sense this realm now from whence the voice calls. It feels fluid, somehow. Not a water world exactly, but one in which the concept of motion takes on added meaning, a multi-dimensional freedom of movement which porpoise in the sea must surely know.
Unlike us humans who cannot soar and float and fly through the vertical space of our environment, dolphin traverse the full dimensions of their fluid world, turning in any direction in streamlined body. What a prison if one were suddenly confined to the two-dimensional surface of land, to the plane upon which we ponderously stride without the capacity to freely lift into the vertical of the sky or plunge into the depths of our world.
The message of the morn is a reminder of this motion, of the realm of freedom that is available just beyond the cusp of the known mind. It encourages exploration into dimensions beyond the norm and, like the porpoise, to leap from familiar habitat for an instant to gasp a life-giving breath, and perhaps do a flip to embrace that life in celebration.
I look out the window now to the universe of morning stars that fill the cloudless sky in the wee hours before dawn. From my vantage point along the Spiti River at high altitude, they sparkle in countless number, in limitless beauty. The view brings to mind a recent snippet I read that if you held a needle at arm’s length and peered through its eye, five thousand galaxies could be seen—if your vision were equal to that of the Hubble Telescope.
The energy of five thousand galaxies, of trillions of stars, pass through the needle’s eye. Yet, as the biblical adage professes, it is as difficult for a person who is loaded with worldly, material burdens to enter heaven as it is for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. If we shed that burden, however, if we stop viewing the world as material, then we and our camel and a thousand galaxies as pure energy can pass through any point our creative mind perceives that we travel. A fluid realm of experience awaits our exploration, a dimension of mind where thought itself is our habitat, awareness our vessel to sail the timeless sea of consciousness.
As a MacroGeology student and the Guardian shamans seem to know, such a liberating breakthrough necessitates a cleansing, a shattering of the old paradigm to make way for the new. So it is time to reenter this creative cycle and watch the wheel of life turn on Ki-ya, where a blast from the past may herald the opening to an expansive future.

- THE BLAST -
A day and a night have passed at the farm of Dora and Topo. Ten hours of daylight and ten nocturnal hours. Always the same 20-hour rhythm runs its course on Ki-ya as the sun rises and sets at identical times each day, at unvarying places on the horizon. This regularity would feel strange to those of us who dwell on a planet that orbits its sun at an angle of twenty-three degrees—we of Earth who have grown accustomed to watching nighttime and daylight constantly vie for dominance as seasons wane and sunrays strike our location on Earth at ever-changing angles due to its awkward tilt.
But the planet known as Ki-ya has no tilt as it spins on its axis, annually orbiting its sun in 438 uniform days that unfold in steady rhythm of ten-hour shifts betwixt dusk and dawn. The people of Endlandius have grown comfortable with this regularity, with this constant pulse of their world. Their comfort, however, is fleeting, for Ki-ya is about to shrug.
The impending explosion of Mount Satin is not the global upheaval of which Mingo and the Guardian shamans have spoken. That volcanic blast will be more of a twitch, a little adjustment that forewarns of the events to follow. Nonetheless, a MacroGeology candidate is eager to witness the Mount Satin eruption from a nearby vantage point to further his research. A second desire arises as well, one that emerges to confound a man unfamiliar with the urges of the flesh: A wish for companionship, a woman’s touch, laughter and such that the presence of Marla has brought to his hours.
Yes, Marla will also journey to Mount Satin’s realm with hopes of viewing nature’s fury expressed through molten blast and ashen peak. A smile and a tweak from Dora encourage her to take a break and, for the sake of a visiting Candidate, to act as gentle guide. So guide, Marla does, showing Mingo the ropes of catching free public transport from the Planter’s village to the foot of Mount Satin. A hover trolley quickly covers the twenty miles, as smiles of two passengers fill the time as they gaze together at the scenery.
Next, a late afternoon trek along forest path creates awe in a visitor bathed by sights, sounds, and smells that flood his awakening senses. An ancient beat arises to greet the pair as they journey ever deeper into the shadow of towering trees. No breeze, only sunlight sifts through leaves to filter onto fern and forest floor, giving warmth and more to life abounding. Heart pounding, Mingo climbs the steep path behind Marla’s lead as a seed of affection grows between the pair. Thin air demands a stop for breath as the two sit atop a log, hand in hand, in silent communion with the moment of being. Man and woman, water and wind, forest and flower, a smile and a kiss. Then back to beating the path until crest is reached and campsite chosen.
The view from the ridge is breathtaking, with Mount Satin rising in full glory to dominate the vista to the northeast. Breath is taken, as well, by large amounts of carbon dioxide that swell and seep silently from the ground beneath the ridge—a common phenomenon preceding volcanic eruptions, but one the Candidate fails to register. Marla finds a flat, grassy niche on which to pitch her tent as sunset deepens, while Mingo aims the vibracorder at the looming mountain whose summit lies a mere three miles as the crow flies from their campsite.
“What an amazing view,” Marla says as she looks up from unrolling her tent to watch a large, blackbird soar away. “Are you sure we’ll be safe here if Mount Satin does actually blow?”
Mingo replies without looking up from his instrument, “We’ll feel the shock wave, but the blast material will shoot upward and eastward away from us, aided by the high altitude westerly airflow.”
Marla walks to where Mingo is standing and puts an arm around his waist. “It’s amazing that MacroGeology technology has progressed to this level of prediction,” Marla observes while peering at the device in Mingo’s hand, “if you really can trust that gadget.”
Mingo nods his head while feeling warmth flow through his left side where Marla is pressed against him. He speaks, “I just wish this thesis candidate’s body was in as good a shape as his vibracorder. I’m having a heck of a time catching my breath ever since we got to the ridge.”
“It’s probably the altitude,” Marla observes as she returns to the tent to complete its erection. Noting her rapid heartbeat, she adds, “Actually, I’m feeling a bit off, too.” She takes several deep breaths, unknowingly inhaling high concentrations of carbon dioxide that further elevate the levels building in her bloodstream.
“Are you hungry, Advocate?”
“I’m too weary to bother with any dinner tonight.”
The Candidate reaches into the travel bag at his side and pulls out a bottle of large pills. “I wish that I could offer you a NutriTab, but they’re designed specifically for my metabolism and body chemistry. A day’s calories and nutrition all in one tablet, plus with added antibodies to help my immune system adjust to a new environment,” Mingo proudly announces as he swallows a tablet and snaps the cap back onto the bottle.
“You are chock full of surprises, my little Outlander,” Marla responds. “What other wonders do you have up your sleeve?”
Mingo reaches into his trousers. “How about a sleeping tube that’s thin enough to fold into your pocket?” He withdraws the hi-tech material and holds it out for Marla to feel. “It’s waterproof and reversible, like my clothing. Sleeping with the red side facing out keeps my body’s warmth in the tube. For hot weather with the blue side out, body heat escapes through the fabric.”
Marla shakes her head in amazement. “Quite a trick, miracle man. Although I think I’ll stick with my nice fluffy sleeping bag,” she adds while fingering the synthetic material of Mingo’s sleeping tube. “You and your tube are welcome, however, to share my tent tonight. I’d enjoy the company.”
“Thanks for the offer. Shelter would be appreciated,” he responds, followed by a contagious yawn that Marla catches. The duo laugh, share a brief hug, and Marla heads for the tent.
“I haven’t gone to bed this early in years,” she observes. “I’ll assume it’s the altitude rather than your company that’s putting me to sleep.”
Mingo walks in the opposite direction to release the day’s waste from his biological vessel, from this amazing human body that has brought him a plethora of new sensations and experiences the past three days since emerging from the wheat field. As he lingers discreetly until Marla has had time to undress and zip into her bag, Mingo wonders what additional marvels await discovery in the physical realm of flesh and bone.
“Do they make all the men as shy as you in your culture?” Marla’s friendly voice emerges from the tent to interrupt Mingo’s thoughts.
“No, Advocate,” he answers with a lopsided smile as he opens the tent flap. “I’m one of a kind. And I apologize for being deficient in understanding the cultural nuances of your people, particularly regarding…” Mingo cannot find the right words for the gender-based feelings he senses, so he stops speaking.
Marla remains silent as well as she watches the man carefully remove his clothing and wriggle into his sleeping tube. She lifts her arms out of her sleeping bag to give her companion a hug. “What’s on your mind, my friend?” she queries, raising her head to make eye contact with Mingo.
The woman’s tender gaze fills the young man with a variety of new emotions, one of which is the courage to ask, “Are you displaying behavioral tendencies reflecting a desire for sexual union with me?”
Marla lets loose with a burst of laughter as she rolls onto her back, leaving Mingo baffled. After laughter subsides, she leans up on one elbow, eyes sparkling, and asks in return, “How would you respond if indeed I was displaying such…such behavioral tendencies?”
The man ponders the question for a moment, then answers in a voice that a candidate might use in defending his thesis. “I find the notion of sexual union with you quite arousing, as a matter of fact. But I am bound by commitments back home not to indulge in such activity during my field work.”
“Oh well,” Marla states with a sigh, “I shouldn’t be surprised that you have a sweetheart waiting with open arms and jealous heart back home, eh Candidate?”
“A significant other back home is indeed eager for my return. But, no, she is not the reason for my vow of celibacy. Sexual abstinence is required of all Candidates who journey abroad as part of an overall policy we follow not to interfere in the internal affairs of the host culture or its people.”
“Even if my internal affairs are ready and eager for your intrusion?” Marla queries with a playful smile.
Mingo blushes for the first time, the only new experience of the flesh he will discover this night. “I’m sorry. My people cannot lie to one another, and I must abide by my commitments to the university Chancellor and my professor as best I can.”
“Where in blazes do you come from, anyway?” Marla inquires while shaking her head at the strange man lying next to her in an even stranger sleeping tube. “We Endlandians are taught that we sit atop the apex of Ki-ya’s cultural and technical development, while you Outlanders are a bunch of primitives. But here you show up with a gizmo that predicts volcanic eruptions, a wonder-tablet for all your dietary needs, a thermostatic sleeping tube, and a stupid vow of celibacy. What gives?”
Her vigorous line of questioning has left the Advocate out of breath and Mingo momentarily without an answer. The Candidate reaches tentatively to touch Marla’s cheek, a gesture met with a kiss on his palm as the two take a moment to communicate with fewer words and more understanding.
Ultimately, the silence is broken by a quiet, “Sleep well, my friend.”
“You too.”
THEY DO SLEEP WELL—very well, actually, since the carbon dioxide in their blood is making the pair extra drowsy. Their slumber is so sound that pre-eruption tremors during the night do not disturb them. But when the vibracorder’s alarm goes off just after dawn, Mingo is instantly awake, if a bit groggy as he squirms free of the tube. Marla, too, comes out of slumber in time to see her excited tent-mate rush through the flap with his instrument pointed squarely at Mount Satin.
“Three minutes,” Mingo shouts at Marla through the tent. “Mount Satin will blow in three minutes!”
Three…two…one…and boom, a solid mountain peak explodes into countless fragments that fly in apparent slow motion, followed by a cloud of ash boiling eastward and upward away from the ridge. The scene unfolds in eerie silence as the eruption’s shock wave takes several seconds to travel the three miles to the duo’s lookout. What it lacks in speed, however, the shock makes up for in power as it knocks Marla and Mingo off their feet with a tremendous boom and a blast. The trees sway madly for some moments, and then the air is once again still. But a roar continues unabated as the two astounded observers attempt to scramble back to their feet to view the violent eruption of gas and ash.
“Just like I thought!” Mingo yells above the din as he stands on shaky legs. He points the vibracorder at the newly remodeled Mount Satin, but he barely has the strength to hold out his arm.
“What the hell?” Marla mumbles as she pulls herself to a nearby rock where she sits with her head in her hands, taking a series of deep breaths in futile attempt to overcome her growing fatigue. “Something must be wrong with the air, Mingo.”
The breathless Candidate frantically punches buttons on the vibracorder as he shouts, “Pure CO2 is streaming from the ground here on the ridge, and it’s increasing!”
Marla finds the strength to stand and stagger toward the tent. “Hurry. Into the tent,” she gasps. “Wrap up in your sleeping tube.”
QUITE AN EXPERIENCE, is it not, Candidate? To watch this body struggle for oxygen, to feel the power of a new emotion, panic, rise from the gut and into a brain that grows more frantic with each moment. Every cell of this biological vessel screams for survival. Every emotion cries for sustenance to keep the vessel breathing, to perpetuate its fading existence.
But what is there to fear, Mingo dear? The body’s death is just a shedding of the skin that keeps you in the realm of Ki-ya. Its demise will catapult your Essence home, to reenter your world as pure energy with stories to tell and memories that hail wonderment and beauty from three days of life while watching the strife in this world. Fighting for harvest, fighting for justice, fighting to survive against the odds and ends that bend the body and challenge the mind in the physical realm of Ki-ya, of Marla, of sensations never before imagined from whence you came.
More, more, more. The body cries out for more experience, more life, more air, as logic takes a distant seat to the fears that meet panic at the fore. But no oxygen remains to fuel the fire, to satisfy the desire for breath in this confining space. Mingo rips off the tube, and on hands and knees flees to catch a breath. But none is found in the tainted air. Halfway through the tent flap he collapses, face down with a last gasp, a last clasp of his hand to gather a clump of Ki-ya’s soil.
Marla fares better in fluffy bag that retains more air, and shortly the updraft from Mount Satin’s blast results in a strong gust across the ridge. The sound of flapping tent in the breeze prompts her to emerge from downy cocoon with great gulps of fresh air that fill needy lungs. She quickly turns her unconscious companion onto his back, puzzled by a small, red glow beneath the skin on his chest. But no time to ponder the mystery as she breathes oxygen into his lungs, life into his grateful body that stirs back to awareness.
Mingo, speechless from his body’s brush with death, takes his rescuer into his arms. The tender reunion is brief, however, as the Advocate advises, “If you’re up to walking, we should get dressed, break camp and get the hell out of here before the wind dies and carbon dioxide builds up again. I don’t feel like holding my breath—and yours—a second time.”
So rush they do, with a brief detour to view the awesome sight where ash billows from the broken mountain and fans out in the upper atmosphere as far eastward as the eye can see. Mingo records some final data and begins the trek down from the ridge with travel bag in hand. Marla follows toting her backpack, relieved to be distancing herself from the carbon dioxide leakage.
After five minutes of brisk hiking the vibracorder indicates that the duo is out of peril from foul air. Marla sits on a log and looks at the dark, roiling sky. “I feel like the world is turned upside-down,” she whispers in awe.
“It’s only the beginning,” Mingo notes. In response to his companion’s questioning look, he continues, “Remember what your Guardian friend said about Ki-ya shrugging as part of a natural cycle of the planet? It’s hard to say for sure what it means, but the planet has developed a wobble in its axis which could lead to all sorts of exciting upheaval for a MacroGeology candidate to include in his thesis. And with a little help from advanced technology,” he adds holding up his vibracorder, “I should be able to follow the action quite nicely as it unfolds.”
“Speaking of advanced technology,” Marla states while reaching to unfasten the top button of her companion’s shirt, “what’s this little gizmo under your skin that was glowing red while you were unconscious.”
“Geez, was it actually glowing?” Mingo responds with surprise. “It’s a microchip implant that is programmed to burn itself up when my biological vessel terminates. If the chip was glowing, that means my body was dangerously close to death—but then you, my guide and protector, rescued me,” he adds with a smile and a squeeze of Marla’s hand.
“So what does the implant do?” Marla persists.
“It sends energy signals back home, primarily so that the Professor can track my progress with the field work. That significant other I mentioned last evening is the Monitor who meditates in a special chamber that concentrates my microchip signal to enable her to telepathically tap into my energy field—and then pass on progress reports to our Professor. She in essence eavesdrops on my conversations, sees what I see, tastes and smells what I taste and smell, and even knows my thoughts and reactions to the situations I encounter here.”
“She can read your mind?” Marla asks incredulously.
“Don’t look so surprised, Advocate. Thoughts, sights, sounds, everything are energy patterns that can be picked up and read by the right receiver, much like your Endlandian audiophones and telescreens have done for decades. My people just use the mind as our main receptor boosted by a bit of technology when communing over long distances,” Mingo explains while pointing to the microchip wafer implanted in his chest. “Back home we don’t need any added technology to telepathically communicate directly from mind to mind.”
“No spoken words?” Marla again asks in amazement.
Mingo nods. “That’s why I told you it was difficult to translate my true name into your language. Also, you can understand why my people can’t easily lie since we are telepathically viewing each other’s thoughts.”
“I’m not sure I’d like the lack of privacy,” Marla says as she cogitates upon what she has just heard.
“Individuals can mentally erect a communion barrier if they wish to shield their thoughts for a time. But we rarely do since it so pleasant to be interconnected in the web of consciousness, to the collective flow of thought that pervades our people. One person smiles and the feeling ripples through the web where we all sense it.” Mingo sighs. “I must admit I’ve missed feeling at one with the collective consciousness while visiting in Endlandius. Although being in your world does have its compensations,” he observes while taking Marla into his arms and pressing her to his chest.
Marla enjoys the moment of connection with her surprising companion. “I can hardly think of you as my naïve little Mingo anymore after hearing about your advanced mind and technology.”
The Candidate looks at the surrounding forest, commenting, “I’m still a babe in the woods when it comes to exploring and understanding your culture. And I would sorely miss my able guide if you cut me loose to wander on my own through this labyrinth of intrigue that pervades your world.”
“Well then,” the woman responds while retrieving her backpack, “you’re welcome to journey with me now to Cascade Valley to prepare for the Advocates’ demonstration against the hydropower project that would destroy the waterfalls. At hike’s end this afternoon, I’ll be taking an overnight hovercraft to Cascade Valley, then after a few days of protests, expect to travel eastwards towards the Interior to meet with Guardian elders and shamans to see if their tribes will join the coalition with the Planters and Advocates.”
“Perfect,” Mingo announces. “Ki-ya’s puzzling, low-frequency hum appears to be generated from somewhere within the Interior. How about if I meet up with you at Cascade Valley after I do a couple of days more research here at the eruption site, then we can travel east together to visit the Guardians and the Interior?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Marla agrees as she shifts her backpack into a comfortable position on her shoulders. “Although don’t expect to penetrate too deeply into the wilds of the Interior. Gateway City is as far east as the law allows non-Guardians to venture without government permission.”
“I trust that with a guide of your caliber, no hurdle will prove too great to surmount,” the Candidate surmises as he gazes fondly into his companion’s face. The woman abruptly looks down to cinch the pack’s belt around her waist. Without pause, she pivots and takes the first steps on the journey to catch a hover trolley for Cascade Valley.
“Hey,” Mingo calls out in protest to his retreating friend, “aren’t you going to at least give me a hug good-bye?”
Marla turns “I would, but I don’t want to make your significant other—your all-seeing Monitor—jealous.” And with a wink and wave, the Advocate strides swiftly down the trail.

- THE MONITOR -
“You summoned me to the chamber, Monitor?”
“Yes, Professor. Thank you for coming.”
“Is there a problem with Candidate 105M on Ki-ya?”
“Nothing major,” Monitor 105F answers telepathically, “although he nearly lost his biological vessel by failing to properly observe atmospheric conditions. A build-up of carbon dioxide and lack of oxygen would have terminated his body, if not for the resuscitative efforts of a female companion.”
The Professor smiles inwardly. “There is nothing like the first time one enters the physical realm of embodiment to learn what adventure truly means. Did I ever tell you, Monitor, about the first time that my Essence was housed in a biological vessel to do research in another world?”
“No Professor. I would enjoy hearing about it.”
“Perhaps I shall share the story with you during your long confinement here in the Monitoring Chamber. Your assignment, I trust, can get rather dull during the periods that the Candidate sleeps.”
“It does, but the hours in which he is active I find most stimulating to watch and experience. Ki-ya is quite a dynamic planet in many ways. A major volcanic eruption has already occurred and cultural issues are in flux there as well. Which brings me to why I requested your presence, Professor,” the Monitor continues. “I fear that Candidate 105M has violated the edict against interfering with the internal affairs of the host world.”
“A minor infraction, I trust?”
“Yes, but I felt compelled to report it nonetheless, since the Chancellor is so stringent about the noninterference policy.”
“Very well, Monitor, what are the details.”
“The Candidate made a suggestion to a political activist, known as Advocate Marla, on how to help forge an alliance between her organization and local farmers, an alliance in opposition of the ruling government. Specifically, he suggested that Advocate volunteers help the Planters harvest wheat in order to generate good will for the alliance.”
“Did the Candidate harbor the Requisite Intent to Interfere at the time he made the suggestion?”
The Monitor laughs silently. “No Professor, I could feel in the Candidate’s mind at the time that he merely desired to make a good impression with Advocate Marla, not to overthrow a government of the host world.”
The Professor chuckles inwardly as well. “Well then, I think we need not emphasize this little slip to the Chancellor.”
The Monitor adjusts her energy body on the stone slab in the middle of the dim, pyramidal chamber. She takes a moment to look above her head where the eight slanted walls of the room meet in a point through which a single shaft of light filters. The shaft radiates an amber glow created by its passage through a quartz octahedron that caps the apex of the eight-sided pyramid.
“Monitor, I sense that another matter is in your mind,” the Professor interposes. “An additional infraction by the Candidate, perhaps?”
The Monitor refocuses her attention on the Professor and lowers the communion barrier that she had unconsciously let rise to shield her thoughts. She answers. “I have a sense of fear for Candidate 105M that is difficult to pinpoint. I can feel him being drawn into the physical world in a way that seems dangerous, as if his Essence is identifying too strongly with the biological body that now houses him.”
“Please be more specific, Monitor.”
She takes a moment to review the multitude of sensations that have passed through her since she began empathically observing the Candidate on Ki-ya. “He takes pride in the superior technology he carries and is eager to show it off to Ki-ya residents. He desires approval. He is physically attracted to Advocate Marla and is making travel decisions based on where she will journey. He has let fear and other instincts that arise from the body overcome him in crisis. And he emits a curious odor in his sleeping tube.”
The Professor responds, “I well understand how these phenomena could be troubling to a significant other, but unless they are carried to the extreme, I do not think they are cause for alarm. Do keep me posted, however, if primitive emotions and biological urges of the body start to interfere with the Candidate’s good judgment or research.”
“As you wish, Professor.”
The Professor starts to leave the chamber but turns back to the address Monitor 105F in a personal fashion. “How are getting along in here, my dear?”
“I am fine, Professor, thank you. Although I miss my friends at times, and I long to feel my connection with the collective web of thought.”
The sympathetic Professor continues, “You do understand why we must keep your split mind isolated from society until Candidate 105M returns to you?”
“Of course, Professor. I understand fully that my duality must not be allowed to pollute the unity of the collective consciousness.”
“Then let us wish for the Candidate’s speedy and safe return,” the Professor concludes and exits the chamber.
Amber light washes over Monitor 105F as she reassumes her meditative posture to mentally reenter the realm of Ki-ya, a strange and wondrous land in which the other half of her Essence stares dumbly down an empty trail where Marla has just disappeared.

CHAPTER 5

The Ethereal Foretells that Flood shall End the Third Epoch


Praise be, the power is back. No, regrettably not in some esoteric sense of reclaiming my oneness with the Force. Simply that after a two-day electrical outage (a frequent inconvenience in this remote area of north India), I am once again able to switch on the computer and commence composing.
Of course, writing with pen and paper was an option after laptop battery ran dry. But upon reaching for those primitive instruments of penmanship I chickened out, not wanting to turn over the creative process solely to my right hand. I know all too well the propensities of this hand and the section of the brain that controls it. Lincoln Logs were placed in orderly, angular forms in childhood, as were the designs of the engineer that followed two decades later. That right hand, slightly more wrinkled, also penned legal briefs and gesticulated in practiced fashion before judicial bench. And it oft pointed in forceful direction, for better or worse, to bend circumstances and people to the will of its controlling lobe.
So for the sake of balance, I now prefer taking the creative reins while fully minded, inviting the left hand to join the writing process guided by the intuitive feminine, by the brain’s more fluid hemisphere where sparking neurons give birth to imaginative ideas beyond the realm of cold logic and masculine control. Keyboard it is, then, where eight fingers can together compose this wordy symphony that plays out in serious notes and loony tunes. Now to exercise the corpus callosum, to feel the electricity spark through slender white fibers that unite the two halves of the brain to give birth to creation.
I tether my enthusiasm for a moment to ponder why this spontaneous play with words arose regarding the role of hands and anatomy of brain. Hmm. What comes now in mind is that these weeks of solitude and silence in the rarefied air of Spiti Valley, including the current book-writing process, facilitate a rewiring of my brain, a reprogramming of my system of perception in order to tap into a broader universe.
This notion is a bit far-fetched perhaps, but such rewiring is needed, so say modern neurophysiologists, to fetch far-flung ideas from realms that were not a part of our initial world and training as children. In short, we humans are hardwired into a certain reality at a young age, and it takes a gargantuan reprogramming effort to make our adult neural networks receptive to new input, say, from subtle realms of energy via new modes of communication.
Certainly there are adults with the eyes to see and ears to hear other realms, specifically many whom I met in Native American communities while consulting on water resource issues in the 1980’s. In indigenous tribes, interaction with ethereal guides, nature spirits, and deceased ancestors can be a commonplace aspect of reality when the mind has been wired as a child to perceive such energetic features of the cultural landscape. But most of us toddlers on this continent were dissuaded from giving credence to our imaginary playmates or to listening to disembodied spirits.
Exceptions to this rule, however, can be found in abundance in Crestone, Colorado, an aberration in the mainstream where a large percentage of its small populace flow in tune with etheric worlds. After settling there in 1990 as a result of my van’s untimely death, my reality was thrown a major curve—a veritable ox-bow in my stream of rationale thought—as neighbors periodically delivered telepathic messages addressed to me from non-corporeal heralds. Good friend and neighbor, Lorraine, in particular, provided a clear conduit for our interactive discussions with a kindly but invisible source of wise telepathic communications arriving in her lucid mind. Even my new lover there, a pragmatic nurse ultra-skeptical of New Age nonsense, began channeling telepathic messages from the heavenly realm encouraging us to open to our total selves and to the expansive universe of energy and spirit.
The next ten amazing years were marked by continuing unplanned, all natural, mind-expanding experiences—of psychic, mystical, and spiritual dimensions—that felt like an infilling of cosmic grace. The path led through the light and shadow of knowing oneself fully in body, mind, and a few other vibratory levels that were new to my existence. The fully-exposed self, shadow and all, was not always a pretty picture, but it felt complete. And from this wholeness, from this sense of finally having reclaimed the mind, of knowing and accepting myself on all levels—what next? Satisfy your day to die. 937 days. Oh well, not what the new-and-improved spiritual ego wanted to hear, but that is where the journey veered circa 2002.
So the creative phase gave way to the destructive. The personal self gave way to universal awareness, and here Eye sit watching words again appear on screen, clues to new patterns taking form in my universe of perception. A novel world of Ki-ya unfolds where the destructive phase is leading to unknown challenge and opportunity. A Monitor watches her significant other awkwardly navigate the wobbling planet, while Advocate Marla fights the good fight on behalf of the People. And perhaps these colorful threads of imagination shall intertwine with the stark lines of Himalayan solitude to weave new patterns between the dual lobes of this madly-sparking brain.

- THE WARNING -
Two days of slogging through ash and climbing over fallen timber has left Mingo exhausted. He sits on a log, one of ten thousand trees snapped by Mount Satin’s blast and boom. No room to maneuver through this horizontal forest, so the go has been rough and slow with vibracorder in hand. But plenty of knowledge was gleaned from this surreal scene of ash and destruction. Mingo’s concludes that the data compiled in his device will suffice to complete the eruption research. Good news for a man with a plan to head to Cascade Valley where a special Advocate and more rally round a cause.
Mingo takes pause to view the scene, to gaze across the opening where clear waters used to flow in what is now a bed of ashen muck. Two human figures and a flying machine are a surprise that he spies lying upriver from where he stands. A wave of their hands indicate that the duo spot Mingo as well, beckoning a lone-walker to come forth into their clearing for hearing what he might tell. The pair is dressed in Federation garb from head to toe, drab but functional, with gear in tow that indicates they too are researching the mountain’s blow.
“So what Federation agency are you with?” the woman of the pair asks in pleasant voice as Mingo approaches.
“I’m just a MacroGeology student,” Mingo answers as he picks his steps carefully to avoid the worst of the muck, “a thesis candidate who arrived a few days ago to study Mount Satin.”
The male of the pair looks at Mingo with wide eyes. “You were actually around when the mountain erupted?”
“Yes. It was quite a spectacle.”
“You lucky dog,” the envious Federation employee responds with a friendly jab to Mingo’s upper arm. “I’d have given my left gondola to have seen a supposedly-extinct volcano blow. And here, some measly student happens to wander by just in time.”
The Candidate smiles at the man while pulling the vibracorder out of his pocket. “Maybe a little luck was involved, but mostly this tool of the trade guided me to the right place at the right time.”
The woman researcher takes the instrument from Mingo and inspects it. She glances back at the young man suspiciously. “This isn’t like any equipment I’ve ever seen. Where’d you get it?”
“My university provided the vibracorder for my field work. As you might have guessed from my dialect, I’m not from Endlandius.”
“Hot damn,” the man reacts with enthusiasm, “you’re the first Outlander I’ve ever met. I didn’t even know that the Ruling Council was letting any foreigners into the Federation these days.”
“Just a few for cultural exchange purposes, Waylon,” the Federation woman comments. She slowly hands the vibracorder back to Mingo with the statement, “You’re a mighty fortunate fellow to have received a travel permit from the Council to enter the Federation and study here.”
Mingo has the presence of mind to simply smile in response rather than demonstrate his ignorance about the need for a foreigner permit. Silence is golden, if a bit tense as the woman stares at Mingo’s face. Waylon fills the gap by asking, “So where is our lucky Outlander going next for his thesis research?”
Mingo responds to the genial man, “I’m traveling south to Cascade Valley before heading towards the Interior to check out the source of low frequency waves that register strongly on the vibracorder.”
“Oh, you’ll love Cascade Valley,” Waylon remarks with pride to the foreigner. “Best waterfalls in all of Endlandius.”
His partner adds, “Although you’ve picked a miserable time to head there. A bunch of troublemakers are protesting the diversion of water from Cascade Falls for a new hydropower project.”
“The Advocates?” Mingo asks.
“Right. So watch out for yourself,” the woman warns. “Those people have gone from peaceably hugging trees to torching power stations in order to promote their cause of sending us back to the dark ages.”
“But my Advocate friend said that the Ruling Council was responsible for setting the big power plant fire,” Mingo naïvely remarks. Even the affable Waylon recoils from the Candidate in response to this heretical statement.
The Federation woman leans toward Mingo and grabs a handful of his shirt. “In different company, stranger, that kind of talk about our Ruling Council would get your travel permit revoked in a heartbeat—along with some serious jail time, complements of the Council police.”
She releases Mingo’s shirt with a flick of her fingers and gestures to Waylon to follow her to their whorlee helicopter. “And be prudent about what friends you choose, Outlander,” the woman adds in final warning as she climbs into the small cab of the flying machine. “The Advocates are nothing but trouble for our government.”
Waylon takes the controls as his partner looks down at Mingo from the cab with a frown. No parting waves accompany the duo’s departure as the whorlee noisily hovers then accelerates with a whoosh over the decimated landscape.

- THE ETHEREAL -
To avoid fallen trees, Mingo follows the former riverbed as it winds south through the valley and away from Mount Satin. Progress remains slow through the mire, giving Mingo time to mentally explore the aftermath of his encounter with the Federation employees. Two friendly people suddenly turned away from him in disgust, leaving the Candidate with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. The woman’s final warning rings as well in Mingo’s active mind—to be careful of the friends he chooses. Doubt arises as the Candidate considers how little he knows of human nature, about the environmental Advocates, and even about Marla in whom he has placed so much trust without questioning her motives.
These thoughts race in circles through Mingo’s head until he reaches a bend in the route. He pulls up short at the curve as he spies a shimmering form on the other side of the mired riverbed. It appears to be a slender man standing motionless in a flowing maroon robe.
“You can see me?” the startled robed figure inquires through silent mental telepathy.
“Of course, why are you surpri—” Mingo begins asking aloud when he suddenly realizes that the person had communicated directly to his mind.
The lithe figure nods his head slowly. “And you are telepathic, as well. I am indeed surprised, for not many adult Recons retain this gift of true sight and hearing.”
“Recons?” Mingo asks, wondering if he has just been insulted.
“Do not take offense, stranger. We Ethereals simply use Recon to designate beings of the human realm, you who live in bodies of reconstituted energy that has solidified into the illusion of matter. You can perceive that my body is made of a higher vibrational energy than is your clumsy form, yes?” the Ethereal asks as he moves closer to Mingo in more of a glide than a walk.
“Yes, I understand. Back home I am accustomed to seeing your type of energy body.” Mingo takes a closer look as the Ethereal draws near. “In fact, your stature and facial structure look precisely like those of an ancient people from my land whose holy men wore long maroon robes just like yours. It’s amazing to me that you have the same features and clothing of these ancients.”
The Ethereal gives Mingo a smile much like a teacher would offer to a young child. “It is logical, not amazing. I am pure energy, thus I only appear in bodily form in the minds of those with sensitive eyes who detect me. Individuals see my form based upon what makes sense to their experience and expectations. Thus to you, I appear as a robed holy man from a familiar culture of your homeland. When Guardian shamans see my energy field, they perceive me as a painted woman wearing hides whom they call the Spirit of the River. To a Planter’s child who catches a glimpse of my shimmering energy, I become a sparkling water sprite that hovers playfully above the river.”
“And to most Recons, you do not even exist, except perhaps in myth,” Mingo adds in way of understanding.
“Precisely,” the Ethereal concurs in continued telepathic connection. “So, stranger, from whence do you hail that you are familiar with beings of ethereal energy bodies?”
Mingo attempts to answer evasively, “The Recons of your continent call me an Outlander, one who hails from across the Great Western Sea.”
The Ethereal gives Mingo a look of mild reproach. “Do not forget that telepathic communication opens one to a realm of no lies, no deception. I sense the truth in your mind, stranger, and I discern that you are reluctant to share it.”
Mingo bows to the Ethereal and states, “Forgive my indirectness. I am bound by oath not to disclose my true place of origin to those whom I encounter in your land.”
“I understand,” responds the etheric being, “for I see that, although your body is of Ki-ya, your spirit is from the stars.” The Ethereal lifts his arms from his sides and opens his palms face-forward in greeting. “Welcome, visitor. Please state the nature of your visit.”
“MacroGeology. I am a candidate here for thesis research as Ki-ya’s instabilities play out in volcanic eruptions, seismic tremors, and whatever other phenomena that the current wobbling of your planet’s axis will create.”
The Ethereal nods, then sends the thought to Mingo’s mind, “It shall be flood that you will see, Candidate, that brings the Third Epoch of Ki-ya to its end.”
Communication between the two momentarily stops as Mingo focuses on trying to make sense of this pronouncement. He then asks in confusion, “How can a flood destroy an entire world when there is only a finite amount of water on the planet?”
“I shall speak no more of an uncertain future,” the stately figure remarks. “But it is foretold that flooding water shall end the Third Epoch of Ki-ya; just as fire closed the First Epoch, and ice brought an end to the Second.”
The MacroGeology student’s curiosity is peaked by this brief description of Ki-ya’s ancient history, so the Ethereal explains. “Scores of millennia ago, an outburst of volcanic eruptions filled the air with poisonous gases, blocked the sun’s life-giving rays, and spewed lava in great quantities upon the inhabited continents of the First World. Only a few people survived to continue life anew during the Second Epoch, life that grew and prospered until again, natural cycles brought an end to civilization—but in ice this time, not fire. Ki-ya passed through the icy tail of a comet, manifesting massive destruction compounded by the comet’s gravitational pull that accelerated Ki-ya’s spin on its axis. Our Third Epoch of civilization followed, which has been marked by great instabilities as Ki-ya has struggled to reestablish her natural rotation and balance.”
“Ki-ya’s shrug,” Mingo muses aloud.
“Yes, stranger, that is one way of describing the day that approaches, when Ki-ya will finally cast off the imbalances of the Third Epoch and ease into a comfortable position for entering the Fourth.” The Ethereal sweeps his arm to indicate the devastated landscape around Mount Satin. “And the day promises to arrive soon.”
Mingo opens his travel bag to remove the vibracorder. He points it eastward towards the Interior, noting that the intensity of the mysterious, low frequency waves has increased fourfold since his arrival on Ki-ya. He asks the Ethereal about the significance of this vibrational hum that lies just below the range of human hearing.
“It is a signal that means different things for different people,” the being replies. “For we Ethereals who still inhabit Ki-ya’s physical plane, the signal is a call to gather at the source of the hum, at the remote mountain lying in the center of this continent. Some humans will feel the summons as well, for it is prophesied that those near the mountain may escape the devastation and survive to create a new civilization in the Fourth Epoch.”
The Ethereal looks at Mingo and continues, “But nothing is preordained in these great planetary cycles of building and destruction. Free choice of all beings, of societies, of Ki-ya herself, will influence the outcome. That is why the Ethereals are gathering at the mountain—to join in council to determine what our role shall be in this cycle of change. Perhaps we shall work collectively to minimize the destructive force that sweeps across the planet; perhaps not.
“Do you expect many people of Ki-ya to survive into the Fourth World?”
“The concerns of a MacroGeology candidate venture beyond the topic of his thesis research. Perhaps adopting a human body has influenced the objectivity of our visitor from the stars?” the shimmering being gently prods.
Mingo laughs. “You are correct that I have found this biological vessel to be a wondrous instrument for housing my Essence. And I am interested in what will happen to this world and its people. But my focus remains clear—to simply complete my research as Ki-ya goes through her transition, then transport my Essence back home to where I belong,” Mingo concludes as he gently taps the microchip transmitter implanted in his chest.
“May I ask how you came to our planet and in what manner you obtained a human body of Ki-ya origin to house your spirit, your Essence as you call it?”
Mingo’s response is polite, if a bit abrupt. “Please excuse me as I mentally raise a communion barrier against our telepathic connection so that I may think about your question in private.”
“Of course,” the Ethereal agrees as he turns away from Mingo to gaze at strands of murky water where once his home-river ran in pristine flow.
Mingo takes the moments of privacy to reflect on the oath he swore as a candidate to refrain from interference with the host world including, if possible, to keep secret his distant star origin. After a minute of weighing his commitments, he lowers the communion barrier and addresses the Ethereal. “Since you already have deduced that I hail from another star system, I see no harm in answering your questions about my journey to your planet. I will project to your mind a recent scene with my professor on my home planet that will address your interests.”
And the Candidate broadcasts to the mind of the Ethereal the episode from the day preceding his departure for Ki-ya:

- THE THESIS -
“Professor!” the excited Candidate beams telepathically while approaching the open door of the advisor’s office. “Is it really true?”
The Professor greets the student with a large smile and motions to a chair. “Settle down, Candidate 105, and you will eventually receive all the details. But, yes, it’s true—the astronomy department has found a planet that should provide an excellent opportunity for your thesis research. It recently began emitting a frequency that indicates that its axis is unstable.”
“Fantastic!” the student mentally exclaims. “That should mean that all sorts of MacroGeologic phenomena will be occurring when I arrive.” But with thoughts that suddenly turn serious, the Candidate asks nervously, “Is it a planet that has been visited by our interstellar explorers.”
After a pause to savor the moment of suspense, the Professor answers with a single nod that causes the Candidate’s energy body to erupt from the chair with a great leap of joy and gratitude. “So we have the DNA available for species of the planet, right Professor?”
“Correct, including genetic material of the planet’s human races which will allow you to move freely through their society with a minimum of bother. Unless, of course, you would rather journey as an insect or some less conspicuous creature,” the Professor jokes before returning to pragmatic details. “I’m sorry to inform you, however, that a millennium has passed since our people explored the indigenous cultures to collect DNA samples and language banks from this planet called Ki-ya. So your dialect and attire may be somewhat outmoded in the current Ki-yan civilization.”
This minor inconvenience feels meaningless to the student whose mind is racing with excitement. To get to finally complete the thesis research, to travel to another star system, and to experience living in a biological vessel each add to a sense of overwhelming joy in Candidate 105. “When do I get to leave, Professor?”
“The lab has already started constructing a composite of human DNA from Ki-ya for your physical body, and your required briefing with the Chancellor is scheduled in just a few moments. First thing tomorrow morning, your Essence will be dualized in preparation for housing in the human vessel. Then into the transport chamber you and your gear go, and by this time tomorrow, you should have awakened in your new biological body on Ki-ya, somewhere near a site that registers the strongest signals for impending volcanic or seismic activity. And your research begins.”
The Professor watches as the thoughts of Candidate 105 fill with wonder and fantasies and doubts about what awaits in the coming days. Little time for reflection is available, however, as the Professor announces the need to immediately proceed to the Chancellor’s office—which they do by instantaneously transporting their energy bodies there via focused thought. Upon their arrival, the Professor and student position themselves by a large desk at whose helm sits a stern looking commander-in-chief of the university.
“You have received the news of your field research assignment, have you not Candidate 105?” the Chancellor begins the meeting in formal telepathic mode.
“I have.”
“Have you previously memorized the conditions and requirements for off-planet research?”
“I have.”
“Do you hereby vow to abide by the rules and regulations required of a candidate while undertaking research on a host planet, including to in no way interfere with the natural course of events transpiring on said planet or with the existing cultures thereon?”
“I do.”
The Chancellor concludes, “Then you are approved for field research, assuming of course, that the process of sexually dualizing your Essence is successful tomorrow so that monitoring may be implemented.”
The Candidate gives a nervous glance in the direction of the Professor who addresses their superior. “I’m sorry, Chancellor, but I have yet to explain the dualization procedure to the Candidate. But I am certain that—”
“Explain it to the Candidate now,” the Chancellor commands, “and be brief.”
The Professor immediately turns to face the student and telepathically speaks, “The human race on Ki-ya has not yet spiritually transcended its dual nature and thus its biological vessels are either male or female. Consequently, your Essence must likewise be gender-dualized to enter such a physical body. After splitting your Essence tomorrow, your masculine component will be ready to enter the male human body that you will occupy on Ki-ya.”
“And the feminine side of my Essence?” the Candidate asks with some trepidation.
The Chancellor answers, “Your female energy body will be isolated in a Monitoring Chamber during the research period in order to keep track of your field work progress. Plus, of course, her isolation is necessary to prevent the gender imbalance she carries from tainting the rest of our society’s collective consciousness. When your Essence is reconstituted into full unity after your male half returns from Ki-ya, you will again become whole and free.”
The Professor adds cheerily, “Free, with your thesis research complete and then a degree in hand, no longer a mere candidate.”
Candidate 105 shudders, not having realized that a split of one’s very soul is a part of the research process required for advanced learning.
THE ETHEREAL GAZES into the heavens. “That was an interesting scene on your home world, Candidate. May I assume that you arrived the next day on Ki-ya somewhere near here?”
“Yes,” Mingo replies as he sits on a stone in the bright sunlight, “my newly extracted male Essence, along with the energy imprint of my physical body and gear, were placed in the Transport Chamber, inter-dimensionally charged through thought and intention, and manifested into your material world of Ki-ya. I arrived in a wheat field below Mount Satin, drawn there by the vibration of the impending eruption.”
“It must feel strange and oft times perplexing to operate in a physical body after living on a planet where energy and Essence prevail, rather than being captive to the density of matter,” the Ethereal speculates.
Mingo nods in agreement as he asks the Ethereal for help with a question that has been troubling him, “Can the people on your planet who call themselves Advocates be trusted?”
“Trust is a difficult concept to describe by we Ethereals who have no sense of distrust to measure it by.” The being glides to the braided waters where he ruminates before again projecting words into Mingo’s mind. “Let me simply observe that human nature is driven by getting its urges fulfilled. All actions of Recons are designed, consciously or unconsciously, to satisfy human needs: The need to feel secure, the need for food, for companionship, to feel useful to others, to have meaning in their lives, to avoid pain—the list is extensive. Some Recons admit this fact and work openly and honestly to have their needs met. Perhaps these are the people whom you can trust, for they are transparent in their self-focused quest for fulfillment.”
The shimmering Ethereal moves closer to Mingo as he observes, “Other Recons, however, are conditioned to believe it is unacceptable to satisfy one’s own urges, therefore they must unconsciously get their needs met through hidden ways—primarily in the guise of helping others or saving the planet. These are the dangerous ones, for how can one from a limited human perspective presume to grasp what another soul, let alone an entire world, requires in this amazing, complex journey through existence?” the Ethereal concludes. “Is this helpful, stranger?”
Mingo looks puzzled as he addresses the shimmering form, “Perhaps I will grow to understand these concepts as I spend more time among the Recons. Right now, I would settle for satisfying my bodily need to get rid of the sweat and odor that builds within my shirt in the heat of the day,” the Candidate adds with a laugh as he moves to the shade. “One of the inconveniences of this biological vessel.”
“Ah, but even the nuisance of perspiration serves to fulfill the human need to sustain its life amidst heat and hardship,” the kindly Ethereal observes as he prepares to depart. “Now I must follow the hum of the mountain to take counsel with my fellow Ethereals.”
“By what name is the humming mountain called that beckons you to gather in the Interior?” Mingo asks.
“Crestonia Peak is the primary source of the hum,” the Ethereal answers. “Perhaps we shall meet again there, star traveler.” The shimmering figure lifts his hand in blessing and farewell as he utters encouragingly, “Live long and perspire.”
“Thank you.” Mingo bends his human vessel in a respectful bow as the Ethereal shimmers off on his journey to Crestonia.

CHAPTER 6

Don’t Settle for C.H.U.M.P. Change


Although the Ethereal that Mingo met on Ki-ya was born in my imagination in 1990, its characteristics are patterned after a real-life encounter with a spirit guide with whom neighbor Lorraine and I conversed in 1992. The visual appearance of the Colorado-based Ethereal came as a surprise since it was the first time in our many hours of telepathic channeling with the wise, inter-dimensional guidance that a physical image of its source appeared in Lorraine’s mind along with the words. (She described the etheric speaker as an androgynous-looking Taoist monk with an otherworldly appearance to its face.)
A few weeks prior, when I had asked the telepathic source who or what it was, it replied: “When you ultimately grasp the totality of self, you will realize that your questions and the answers arise from the same source.” Paraphrased more succinctly—‘Hey guys, you’re basically talking to your own Mind.’
This was one of several times that the inter-dimensional guidance emphasized that we should not let the novelty of, or our appreciation for, this telepathic communication run amok and turn it into some mystical channeling session with higher beings. Rather, it suggested, we should employ the mental telepathy only for a brief period as a wake-up call to expand our limited view of ourselves, our minds, and the narrow universe to which we had been conditioned. (i.e., “As you see, we are not available to answer questions that arise to satisfy curiosity, but are here to assist you in finding answers within yourself…to assist in your transformation, to open your awareness to the greater possibilities that await you.”)
Lorraine’s and my application of this useful and entertaining inter-dimensional tool lasted from mid-March 1992 to about the end of April. One theme that periodically arose involved potential Earth-changes and our personal roles relative to them. The guidance spoke of a stabilizing web that is key to our planet’s stability:
“This stabilizing web in one way can be seen as symbolic of and connected with Spider Woman. In many traditional stories she represents the Creator who weaves the web of reality into form. Picture, if you will, this web with tensile strength which gives under resistance without breaking. Water supports the integrity of the web and maintains its elasticity so that it does not shatter under pressures being exerted. The web, however, is under such stress at this time as to be close to breaking.”
In response to my questions about the vulnerability of the web, the source answered:
“The entire Earth is in a fragile geophysical position at this point. Much of this is due to great natural cycles of transformation that are to be expected and honored. Additional stress, however, is placed on earth at this time by those motivated by greed and self-serving desires. This is the part to be addressed.”
It then listed several locales whose water and vibrational energies are key to maintaining the Earth’s balance, many of which overlap American Indian reservations.
“Interesting, is it not, that most of these areas are sacred to the First People of this land? It was no coincidence that the government [during the 1800’s], in its greed and folly, unknowingly placed the native peoples in these crucial areas. They hold through their prayers and ceremonies a resonance with the land, a certain stability. This power is undermined, however, as the leaders of greed seek to disenfranchise native strength.”
That last sentence sounds like something straight out of a speech by Advocate Marla. In fact, in was startling to me how many of the fictitious aspects of my 1990 Ki-yan storyline started popping into my Crestone reality over the next couple of years: Nature spirits, telepathic communication, warnings of planetary upheaval, government machinations, and more. Kind of made me wonder—and it still does—about the power of thought. Or as my favorite trickster-guru once warned: “Better be careful, homeboy. You never know what you might create when mixing imagination and reality in the hopper of the mind.”
But, warnings aside, we recklessly plunge full speed ahead into the realms of creation, imagination, and possible destruction to find that Mingo has completed Mount Satin field work and has made his way via an overnight hover trolley to the entrance of Cascade Valley—where nature’s thrall and water’s fall bring conflict to the fore.

- THE DIVERSION -
Movement of his seatmate jostles Mingo into wakefulness and to the awareness that the hover trolley has reached Cascade Valley. As the big vehicle eases onto the tarmac, excited passengers peer through the windows eager to catch their first glimpses of the valley’s rugged beauty and spectacular waterfalls. Mingo, too, stirs with anticipation, an excitement stemming more from the desire to reunite with Advocate Marla than to view natural wonders.
“Good morning and welcome to Cascade Valley, friends,” a uniformed woman greets the tourists as they exit the vehicle. “You are privileged to have arrived on the inaugural day of the great Cascade Hydroelectric Utility Management Project. This afternoon, you may join the C.H.U.M.P. ceremony and witness history in the making as the Metro mayor cuts the ribbon to open the facility. Then beginning tomorrow, the diversion of water from Cascade Falls through enormous turbines will rescue the End Land Metropolis from the electricity shortage that has plagued the city ever since arson destroyed its primary power plant.”
A smattering of applause greets this pronouncement as the woman leads the group through a row of informational billboards. “Please feel free to read about this unique power project while we wait for our Tour Trolley to arrive. Or for those with an independent streak,” the tour guide smiles at the group as she continues, “you may walk about and see for yourself the splendors of Cascade Valley.”
A nervous tourist in front responds, “But I heard it was dangerous in the valley this week because of radical environmentalists protesting the diversion.”
The guide’s smile remains steadfast as she states, “I’m pleased to announce that the ringleaders of the Advocate agitators were…were encouraged to leave yesterday, while the remaining demonstrators have been shuttled to the far side of the valley. You should encounter no disruptions to your enjoyment of nature’s unspoiled beauty—this morning, anyway,” the guide concludes as she ducks beneath the final billboard and brings the group to an array of concession stands.
Mingo feels a rush of concern for Marla as the implications of the news spoken about the Advocate leaders takes hold in his mind. While tourists scatter to find breakfast at various booths, he approaches the guide to ask for directions to the Advocate demonstration area. His request meets with a scornful look and with vague gestures indicating the general direction to walk.
The Candidate proceeds accordingly, striding along a path leading towards an old-growth grove of giant evergreens. Upon entering the trees, he instinctively stops to inhale a deep breath, not having noticed until now the strain on his body created by the overnight travel and close quarters with fellow Recons. He savors the freedom of the empty path and the quiet beauty of towering trees, a beauty that is magnified ten-fold as the enraptured visitor breaks into a clearing where the glory of Cascade Valley rises before his wide eyes.
Granite cliffs and rugged peaks speak of history carved in stone when great sheets of ice sliced and sheared the rock, creating falls and walls and domes, weathered tomes scribed by nature’s power for future eyes to read with awe. Mingo gazes at wisps of water floating a thousand feet and more from top to valley floor, plus one raging torrent gushing over lip of stone to take the plunge with mighty roar. Coaxed by gravity to desist its forward rush, it plummets down granite face to bear the name and grace of Cascade Falls.
The Candidate stands transfixed before the aquatic colossus, feeling its distant thunder rumble in his chest. In his mind he hears, “You are the star visitor from Mount Satin, are you not?”
Mingo lowers his gaze to spy a misty form emerge from the forest. “Yes, I am,” he replies telepathically to the Ethereal, “but how do you know me?”
The robed figure answers with a bow and gentle phrase, “When one chord in the etheric web of life is struck, all beings vibrate with rivulets of knowing.”
“Come again?”
“Okay, my buddy heading to Crestonia Peak told me about you,” the Ethereal answers more succinctly after sensing Mingo’s desire for clear and concise answers. “The Spirit of the River and I are pretty tight.” Anticipating the Recon’s next question, the Ethereal explains, “I’m called the Keeper of the Valley. Although tomorrow morning, when the waters of Cascade Falls go, so do I. Yep, I’m off to Crestonia Peak to join the gang for a little powwow. By the way, the Advocates you seek are gathered a half mile down the right fork of this path. Good journey to you, stranger,” the Keeper of the Valley concludes as he gives Mingo a quick wave and disappears into the forest.
Grateful for this burst of clarity in an obtuse world, Mingo follows the Ethereal’s directions until he arrives at the Advocates’ protest area. Several dozen demonstrators, many of whom carry placards, walk slowly in a large circle, while a score of uniformed officers are positioned around the periphery. As he approaches the scene Mingo reads the placards, most of which are neatly printed with the plea, Stop the Diversion, Save our Falls; others implore, Don’t settle for C.H.U.M.P. change. He notices, too, that a few posters carry a message hastily painted in freehand, demanding, Free the Falls Four. The Candidate feels his pulse quicken with anticipation as he approaches the crowd of Advocates to look for Marla.
“You don’t want to associate with that sort of riff-raff, now do you, Buster?” a stocky policeman snarls while blocking the young man’s path.
“The name’s not Buster,” Mingo volunteers helpfully to the officer.
“Oh, a wise guy, eh?” the officer responds while extending two thick fingers in threatening gesture at Mingo’s face.
“Cut it out, Lieutenant Mo,” a nearby police captain interjects. “There’s no law against joining a peaceful demonstration if that’s what these miscreants want to do.”
The Lieutenant reluctantly steps aside and stares at Mingo as he passes. “Not yet, there ain’t, Captain Yoosten. Not yet.”
Mingo receives a warmer welcome as he reaches the circle of Advocates. He wastes no time in asking, “Do you know a woman named Marla?”
“Can you describe her?” a young protestor responds.
“Well, she’s extremely intelligent, very personable, and…” The Candidate pauses to scan the extensive vocabulary he mentally absorbed in preparation for Ki-yan field work. “And remarkably callipygian.”
“You must be the Outlander that Marla mentioned,” a middle-aged fellow interrupts, grabbing Mingo by the arm and pulling him to a spot inside the circling group. “Marla gave me a message to pass on to you right before she was arrested.”
“Arrested?” Mingo reacts with shock. “But I thought this protest was legal.”
“It is, but she and three others were taken away on trumped-up charges of arson and treason. Some stooge who confessed to setting the big power plant fire fingered the Advocate leaders as co-conspirators in his plot to violently overthrow the Federation of Endlandius.”
“Could Marla really be involved in such violence?” Mingo wonders aloud as his confusion about human nature again rises to the fore.
“Of course not,” the Advocate responds with irritation. “But supposedly this arsonist attended one of our rallies, and he told the police that Marla’s speech inspired him to carry out his treasonous acts of violence. With the sweeping anti-conspiracy laws that the Ruling Council recently enacted, Marla by simply speaking her mind about the need for change, could be punished as severely as if she had planted the firebomb.”
“What can we do about it?” asks Mingo earnestly.
“Free the Falls Four,” the man states with a resigned shrug as he points to the posters held by circling Advocates. “Maybe protest demonstrations are futile, but empty words are about all we have left after the Elites took governance away from the people.”
“So what was Marla’s message for me?”
The man replies verbosely, “She said for me to say to you that she said to tell you that if you go to the Interior, to give a message from her to her Guardian shaman friends who live near Gateway City.”
“That message being?” Mingo patiently inquires.
“She said for me to say to you to tell the Guardian shamans that she told me to tell you to tell them that she has been arrested and cannot visit the Guardians as planned.” The Advocate continues without pause, “So when you get to Gateway City, go to the Guardian Village and ask for the medicine woman named Teh-Wa or her husband, Noh-Wa, and give them the message that Marla said to me to say to you to say to them that—”
“Thanks, I got it already,” Mingo states loudly, eager to bring an end to the Advocate’s flow of empty words.
With a friendly handshake, Mingo takes leave of the wordy protestor who watches him walk past the circle of protestors and through the squadron of officers. “Have a nice day, Outlander!” the helpful Advocate calls out to the departing visitor.
Lieutenant Mo alertly responds to the word, Outlander, again blocking Mingo’s path as he attempts to leave the demonstration area. “I should have guessed you were a foreigner by the funny way you dress and talk,” the Lieutenant smirks as he gives Mingo the once-over. “But I wouldn’t expect the Ruling Council to issue a travel permit to an Outlander to help a bunch of hooligans protest our way of life. Would you?”
Mingo looks at the ground and slowly shakes his head. Without taking his eyes from the uninvited visitor, Lieutenant Mo calls out to his superior officer, “Yoosten, we have a problem.”
Captain Yoosten saunters over while the Lieutenant explains, “I suspect this young gentleman is an illegal Outlander who the Ruling Council will be mighty interested in interrogating to find out what overseas power is supporting the Advocates’ plan to overthrow our government.”
“That’s nonsense,” Mingo finally finds words to respond. “I’m no such thing.”
Lieutenant Mo pokes the Captain in the ribs and suggests, “Let’s give our guest a special language and literacy test to let him prove he’s not an Outlander.” He turns to Mingo, points to a nearby protest placard, and with false cheer states, “All you have to do, friend, is read that poster out loud three times really, really fast. Ready-set-go!”
Without time to think, Mingo inhales a deep breath and releases the words as quickly as humanly possible, “Free-the-falls-four. Free-the-false-forth. Flee-the-floss-floor.” The two officers share a good laugh as the tongue-tied Candidate hangs his head in dejection.
“Aw, what a shame, you failed the literacy test,” the Lieutenant utters in mock sympathy as he pulls Mingo’s arms behind his back and handcuffs the illegal foreigner. “Captain Yoosten, what do we have as a consolation prize for our losing contestant?”
The Captain grins and with a sweep of his arm towards the police transport wagon, he announces, “A free ride in a brand new Paddy Caddy! Complete with uniformed chauffeur to drive him all the way to the Metropolis where the Ruling Council will house our Outlander in its secure, underground facility. Personal cell, bunk, and lice included at no extra cost.”
Lieutenant Mo chuckles as he leads Mingo to the paddy wagon and throws him roughly to the floor. “Here’s a little piece of advice for surviving in this crazy foreign land you’ve entered,” the officer states as Mingo rolls awkwardly onto his side. “Keep your sense of humor, Outlander, and take time for an occasional plunge into the absurd.”
Mingo looks into the eyes of his captor that, for an instant, appear genuinely kind. “I guarantee you’ll survive and prosper if you do,” Lieutenant Mo concludes with a wink and a raise of his hand in farewell, “no sweat.”

- THE PRISONER -
Mingo sits in the pitch dark for a second straight day, pondering his fate and killing time in the Ruling Council’s underground prison. The separation from his native planet and the isolation from other human beings on Ki-ya weigh heavily on his mind. He unconsciously reaches to touch the bulge of the microchip wafer implanted above his heart, a comforting reminder of his link to home. He starts to send thoughts to his female half on his home world, to the Monitor who observes all his experiences and feelings. But the Candidate finds his thoughts instead wandering to memories of Marla, to her kindness, her strength, to the smile on her lovely face. Mingo closes his eyes to make the recollections more vivid, but he is suddenly thrown into the current moment by light emanating from the ceiling and the sound of his cell door unlocking.
“Thank you, guard, we shan’t be needing you,” a mature woman’s voice speaks. Mingo automatically stands as a striking lady enters with long gray hair flowing down an ornate purple robe, accompanied by an elderly man in identical garb.
“Be seated,” she states with easy authority to Mingo. “I am Madame Xandu, vice chair of the Ruling Council. This is my husband who occupies the seat next to mine.” The stately gentleman gives Mingo a curt nod while his wife continues, “I apologize for your accommodations the past two days, but the Ruling Council is filled with old fools who cling to antiquated notions of dungeons and such.”
“Now dear,” Sir Xandu admonishes, “let us not display the Federation’s dirty linen too hastily to our foreign guest.”
The woman continues looking directly at the prisoner as she asserts, “I tolerate no stupidity or deception, and I expect you to display neither tendency. Is that understood?” Mingo nods in assent.
“Fine. Then welcome to Endlandius, stranger,” the woman states as she sits next to Mingo. “My husband and I were assigned by the Council to review your case, a duty I gladly assumed after seeing the fascinating contents of your travel bag. My parochial colleagues conclude that you are an overseas infiltrator bent on supporting local agitators to destabilize our Federation government.”
“I don’t—” Mingo begins to protest but is silenced by the slight lift of Madame Xandu’s index finger.
She resumes speaking. “Such an assumption is typical of the Council’s paranoia and short-sighted thinking. My laboratory’s analysis of your possessions yesterday proved what I had expected—that your clothing, nutrients, and electronic instrument far exceed any technology that we have in the Federation. In fact,” she states while removing Mingo’s vibracorder from her robe pouch, “my science advisor concludes that this device contains metallic elements foreign not only to Endlandius but unknown anywhere on Ki-ya.” The vice chair of the Council leans close to Mingo’s face and states in quiet command, “Tell me of this instrument, foreigner.”
The Candidate answers, “The vibracorder registers energy patterns associated with seismic, volcanic, and other MacroGeologic activity.”
Madame Xandu smiles. “A limited answer but a concise and truthful one, corroborated by your Advocate friend in the lower cell block.”
“Is Marla—” Mingo’s eager reaction is again stifled by the authority of Madame Xandu’s raised finger.
“Do not concern yourself with the petty affairs of others, my friend, for we have much to contemplate of grander design. Are you not here to witness the planetary events that prophecies foretell will lead Ki-ya into a wondrous new age of peace, prosperity, and opportunity?”
“Perhaps,” Mingo replies. “I know little of your people’s prophecies. I am merely researching the geologic phenomena resulting from Ki-ya’s new wobble on its axis.”
Sir Xandu raises his eyebrows as he comments, “So you know of this planetary instability that we are trying to keep secret from our citizenry. Panic over its potential devastating effects would serve no one’s interests, wouldn’t you agree?”
Before Mingo has time to answer, Madame Xandu interjects, “I will be frank, stranger, since only my interests concern me. Unlike most people of this culture, I believe that intelligent life exists in other star systems and that distant beings have visited our planet in past centuries as described in ancient lore.” The woman looks again at the vibracorder in her hand. “If you are such an interstellar traveler, it would be a waste to allow the Council to execute you for subversive activities. So I ask you directly, where are you from?”
Mingo replies with an apologetic look on his face, “I am bound by a vow to my university not to divulge the origin of my homeland.”
“Very well,” Madame Xandu responds as she stands and turns towards the door to leave the cell. “I respect your integrity in keeping to a vow—and rest assured I will do everything in my power to compel you to break it. This evening, if all goes well, you will be our guest at the Xandu estate where we can freely explore ways to heighten your desire to cooperate.”
Sir Xandu gives a stiff bow from the waist as he exits the doorway, while his wife pauses with a final instruction to the prisoner. “Say nothing during your appearance today before the Ruling Council, and do not doubt that I have the will and ability to accomplish what needs to be done.”
Mingo feels no doubts whatsoever; only an uneasy flutter in his stomach to add to the growing list of sensations while incarcerated in his body of flesh.
“MOVING ON TO THE NEXT ITEM on today’s full agenda,” the Council chairman orders as he refers to a sheet on the podium, “I will turn the meeting over to the vice chair to report her findings concerning the illegal Outlander.”
“Thank you, Chairman Zangar,” Madame Xandu responds as she signals to the bailiff to bring the prisoner into the council room. “I will be brief since the situation is actually quite simple and open to easy solution. I am pleased to report that the illegal foreigner is not a dangerous infiltrator but simply a MacroGeology student who entered our borders without understanding the need to obtain a travel permit from the Ruling Council.”
A council member from across the room interrupts Madame Xandu by declaring, “But you can’t simply trust the statement that a conniving Outlander makes to the police. We need corroborating evidence.”
“A good point, Councilman Zenefoeb,” Madame Xandu coolly responds. “The suspect’s story was independently verified by one of the four Advocate leaders taken into custody, plus further corroboration was provided by a Planter couple with whom the student accurately reported that he resided.”
“So what about that hi-tech weapon he carried in his pocket?” Sir Zenefoeb inquires while giving Mingo a suspicious glare.
“Simply a tool of the young man’s trade, Councilman, that can do no harm. And you are correct, it is a surprisingly sophisticated instrument,” Madame Xandu says with a smile at the questioner. “Which prompts me to recommend that the illegal foreigner be remanded to my custody so that my husband and I may gather further information about his culture and technology.”
The Council chairman states, “A fine idea, Madame Xandu. It appears as if our Outland neighbors on the other continents may be more advanced than we suspected.”
Madame Xandu simply nods her head as she glances at Mingo standing in handcuffs by the exit. She motions to the bailiff to remove him from chambers as the chairman addresses the next agenda item. “Moving right along, let us consider the surprising backlash that resulted from the arrest of the so-called Falls Four at Cascade Valley. The unpopular, yet necessary, co-conspiracy laws that were used to justify incarcerating the four Advocates are—”
Mingo hears no more as he is pulled through the exit and directed to stand facing the wall. After a few minutes of staring at the marble patterns in front of his nose, the Candidate is turned around by a gentle hand. Sir Xandu greets him with a smile and the comment, “So, young man, we will be honored to have you at our table this evening.”
Mingo is not certain how to react to the news, but he answers politely, “Thank you, sir. I am sure it will be a brighter dinner than those I’ve had in my prison cell.”
“And enlightening for the Madame and myself as well. We look forward to what we can learn from such a unique visitor while you are in our care.”
Mingo shakes his head contritely. “I’m sorry, but I have already reported all I can about myself and situation. I’m not at liberty to identify my homeland or to provide information that could influence events in your country.”
The expression on Sir Xandu’s face turns serious as he remarks, “My friend, there have been those in the past who have underestimated the Madame’s power to elicit truth. Do not be so foolish as to add your name to the list.” The gentleman’s raises one eyebrow at Mingo, and then the host’s geniality returns. “When this interminable Council meeting is over, the Madame and I will retrieve you from your cell and we shall have a congenial ride together to our estate in time for dinner. Do you prefer red or white wine with your gamefowl-under-glass?”
Mingo looks his host in the eye. “I haven’t a clue.”

CHAPTER 7

Only the Truth shall Set You Free


I haven’t a clue. A truthful answer by Mingo and an excellent mantra for my current existence. I haven’t a clue. I know nothing. That is not just a contrived lament, it is an honest assessment of what is left after being stripped of the layers of old conditioning, of the human self-image and the trappings that support it. Oh yes, I can still speculate about all sorts of things, about rewiring of brains and some unified energy field; about the nature of consciousness, spirit guides, old sweethearts, a land of Ki-ya, God, country, and apple pie.
But all these are simply mind games, entertaining constructs that play out at various times in perceptions of the mind—a mind that is itself only speculative perception, a nebulous concept that gives us false comfort that we actually know something, that we actually are something. But when the mind ultimately awakens to its wholeness, to full awareness—poof—it realizes there is no mind. When the self finally knows and embraces all aspects of its being, it grasps the falseness of that sense of individual self and also vanishes.
What remains beyond this paradox is simply the moment of perception. That’s it. There is perception; all else is conjecture. Whether the currently-perceived computer actually exists and whether there is a person sitting in a chair typing on it is an open question—whose answer, in recent years, I have spent an inordinate amount of time pondering.
Gratefully, greater minds than this one have likewise contemplated the nature of existence and left their seeds of wisdom to flourish in the ever-expanding mindscape of the human collective consciousness. The wise Dr. Einstein threw the world for a loop, literally, a hundred years ago when indicating our existence was not in the tidy three dimensions we perceive but rather takes form within an intricately curved 4-D space-time continuum. Current physics theories and mathematics indicate that an 11-dimensional universe makes more sense, but that’s just a matter of splitting hairs or atoms or Superstrings or whatever the latest item to sprout from scientific noggins.
Einstein often used thought experiments, as he called them, to develop and explore possible explanations for the quirks of the universe—then backed his creative conclusions with mathematics. The basics of his relativity theories were birthed from his imagining what he would experience while riding on a beam of light. The ultimate result of his journey was that science’s notions of time and space lost their absolute character—time in our universe progresses at varying rates, and the size of space and objects fluctuates as well, depending upon the observer’s frame of reference (primarily based on how fast the observer is traveling).
The goodly professor also demonstrated to us primitive peoples locked in a three-dimensional world the intimate relationship between matter and energy (E=MC2). But while he frittered away his final years trying unsuccessfully to formulate a unified theory for all forces in the universe (the key to which, he believed, was to be found in the fifth dimension), the quantum physicists went full bore into demonstrating the vagaries of mass and the efficacy of using energy to explain the mysterious, even mystical, nature of the subatomic universe.
Einstein never much cottoned to the notion of subatomic particles as unsubstantial quantum blips in the energy field manifesting through chance and probabilities (thus his famous quote about God not playing dice). Nonetheless, the known universe now appears in modern physics as pure energy given solid form by our perceptions and, for those with the eyes to see and minds to explore, not limited by antiquated notions of time, space, and matter. And God seems to have tired of the craps table and moved on to the roulette wheel to gamble with subatomic spin and color—while Mingo continues playing the odds with his own riddle in what is black and white and perused all over.

- THE INTERROGATION -
“Red was an excellent choice, young man,” Sir Xandu observes while pushing back from the table with wine glass in hand.
“The whole feast was delicious,” Mingo responds, savoring the many new tastes his satiated body discovered while dining at his hosts’ estate.
“To the good life,” the elderly gentleman declares, “and to new worlds to conquer.”
Madame Xandu joins in the toast as she drains her crystal goblet and proceeds to a large divan. She sits regally on one end of the plush couch, draping her long gray hair neatly over the back before smoothing her exquisite turquoise robe with her palms. Mingo peers at the intricate black embroidery on the robe as he obeys the hostess’s directive to sit in the cushioned chair immediately opposite. After retrieving a brandy decanter, her husband reclines casually on the other end of the divan.
“Now, with the pleasantries of a fine dinner behind us, the time has come to address business matters,” the vice chair of the Ruling Council speaks. “To begin with, Mingo, you should understand that the Sir and I live tenets of faith and honesty. In short, we have faith that if we honestly pursue those things we desire, we shall have them in abundance. Deception only dissipates energy and undermines the strength that truth gives one, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” Mingo concurs. “My people do not believe in lying.”
“Excellent. So I shall express the truth about this evening. As our new friend and guest, my sole interest in you is to obtain from you what I want. My wants include wishing to have a pleasant evening, to make you comfortable so that you will relax with us, and to glean information from you that will enhance my power, pleasure, security, and other human desires that Sir Xandu and I have been quite successful in fulfilling thus far in our lifetimes.”
“Hear-hear,” the Sir interjects as he reaches down to pour himself a snifter of brandy.
“In order to overcome your expressed reluctance to enlighten us about yourself and your research, I will use whatever methods are necessary to acquire, or extract, the information that I need from you.” The Madame leans toward the Candidate and states sincerely, “I am not a sadistic person, and I prefer to start the process by using gentle persuasion rather than applying crude tools of physical torture.”
“Hear-hear,” Mingo declares encouragingly as he begins to catch on to the cultural nuances of his host world.
The woman resumes speaking, “We in this room realize that Ki-ya is undergoing a dramatic geophysical change that could lead to a multitude of opportunities, at least for those of us well-positioned and prepared to take advantage of the openings. Already, the Sir and I have spent two decades and significant funds building an extensive underground refuge at a location in the Interior where our head Propheteer—our main scientist whose mind can sense the vibrations of impending events—predicts will lie out of danger of the planetary turmoil. You, however, could no doubt greatly enhance our preparedness with your advanced technology and MacroGeology knowledge.”
“I would love to reciprocate your kindness and honesty, ma’am,” Mingo responds politely, “but as you know, I am bound by oath to my university not to share information that will expose my origin or that might influence the affairs of your existing culture.”
“Not to worry, my friend. It is my job this evening to find a way to circumvent your vow and unveil the truth.” The Madame looks at her husband and adds, “I rather enjoy the challenge, don’t you, darling?”
Sir Xandu briefly raises his snifter in affirmation and with a knowing smile suggests, “Perhaps inviting the Andrigene to join our little party would be a pleasant and compelling incentive in the search for candor from our guest.”
“All in good time, my love. Let us first simply give our visitor the facts and keep the faith that the evening will prove productive.” The Madame commences explaining to Mingo, “The Xandu estate maintains a laboratory that combines the latest scientific technology with a progressive approach to utilizing the mind’s ability to detect and control energy. Our provincial society generally relegates such mental powers to the mystical realm, even though modern science has demonstrated that everything, from minds to mountains, is part of a unified energy field that is intra-linked in natural order.”
Sir Xandu interjects, “We are just beginning to understand how to tap our mental energies to influence health, communication, and even the course of physical events. Despite understanding the physics of a universe of energy unbounded by antiquated notions of time and space, we are still in the infancy of putting this knowledge into practical modes of travel, telepathy, prophecy, and the like.”
The Madame places the vibracorder on the ornate end table as she states to Mingo, “I suspect that your people have progressed significantly further than we in mastering energy and freeing yourselves from the illusions of a material world. Is that not so?”
The Candidate simply nods. After waiting for details that are not forthcoming, Madame Xandu curtly states, “Fine, take a moment to consider how you can best assist the Sir and me, which in turn might keep you from being returned to prison for more drastic interrogation and possible execution.”
After a large gulp and a few minutes of wildly racing thoughts, the Candidate breaks the silence with the declaration, “If I violate my oath to the Chancellor by telling you about my origins or altering your culture by giving it advanced scientific knowledge, I will be recalled home without being able to complete my field work and degree. It seems that the solution lies in sharing with you only what I know of Ki-ya’s situation.”
Mingo bobs his head in an unconscious attempt to reassure himself of the correctness of his decision as he announces, “I see no harm in sharing my research data with you or in passing on information about the planetary changes that I have heard from others, such as from the Ethereal at Mount Satin.”
The Xandu spouses exchange a wide-eyed look on the divan then simultaneously turn to stare at their guest. The Madame speaks first, “You actually communicated with an Ethereal?”
“Two as a matter of fact. Their mode of telepathy is quite compatible with my communication skills,” Mingo responds with relief and a touch of pride at seeing his hosts’ startled reaction to his pronouncement. “The Ethereal at Mount Satin said that the Third Epoch of Ki-ya would end in a few days and that it would arrive in flood. He and the other Ethereals are gathering at a mountain in the Interior to chart their next moves to either help or hinder the changes,” the Candidate adds nonchalantly as if this were common knowledge.
Madame Xandu recovers her composure to remark, “Although we had heard from secondhand reports of Guardian prophecies about global destruction by flooding, we discounted the notion as tribal myth, symbolic of a cleansing. But if you really communicated with an Ethereal who spoke of flood, explain what is foretold.”
“I’m sorry, but my Ethereal friend—who is called a Spirit of the River—would say no more about the flood. Nor can I make sense of the notion of a worldwide inundation either.”
Suddenly, another bolt of logic strikes Mingo in his desire to break free from the Xandu estate to continue his research. He excitedly shares the idea with his hosts. “Before being arrested, I had been planning to next journey to the Interior to track a mysterious, low frequency hum. If you release me, I could let you know what I find out there, plus contact the Ethereals again to get us more detail about the flood and all.”
Sir Xandu responds enthusiastically, “An excellent idea, Mingo! No Prophetess or Propheteer on our team has ever had access to the Ethereals.” He turns to his wife and beams, “Darling, can you imagine what a wealth of information Mingo could garner for us after leaving for the Interior?”
The Sir is surprised, however, to see his unsmiling spouse sitting with arms folded. “Not so fast, gentlemen,” the Madame states as she looks penetratingly into her guest’s eyes. “Only the truth shall set you free—and do you know, Mingo, we’ve only just begun?”
“No,” the nervous young man replies, “but if you sing a few bars, maybe I could hum along.”

CHAPTER 8

Madame Xandu Serves the Cause to which She is Unflinchingly Devoted


We’ve Only Just Begun. Ah, the mists of nostalgia roll into Spiti Valley as this song strikes old cords and tugs on rusty heartstrings little exercised in recent years. One could hardly live through the 1970’s without attending at least one wedding in which Karen Carpenter warbled this optimistic tune as the newlyweds strolled happily-ever-after out the church amidst showers of rice and best wishes.
Where have those good old days gone when life was simple, relationships full of hope, and my known universe was confined to three dimensions of space? I felt truly happy then, both in childhood and as an adult in a 3-D existence. But in retrospect, those three D’s stood for: DENIAL of my inner shadow and frailties that I blithely projected onto others; DELUSIONS of self-importance, convinced that what I accomplished on this earthly plane could help the world and its inhabitants; and DISTRACTIONS of running off to more, more, more noble causes, nature hikes, overseas travel, women, sports teams and, ultimately, more spiritual practices.
No judgment accompanies this observation, for those three D’s serve many of us well to navigate this labyrinthine human existence whose intrinsic nature, according to Buddha, is suffering. Life being a constant struggle to meet human needs and grasp for survival while we inevitably deteriorate and die, over and over, lifetime after lifetime, until breaking our addiction to this worldly cycle and returning to our rightful state of oneness. Seems to have worked for him.
Some authors who still open our eyes to see a world of conflict and who have been stripped of our delusions apparently resort to absurdity and The Carpenters to smooth the painful path. Plus, such expressions of foolishness help prevent that dastardly duo—spiritual correctness and self-righteousness—from worming their way back into my fluid universe to resuscitate black and white dualities: such as the spiritual versus not-spiritual, of us noble folks versus the Commie hordes, of liberals against conservatives, and other favorite golden oldies spinning through my judgmental past.
No, let not screwworms and empires of evil sink my vessel of consciousness back into such polarized thinking or rekindle some attractive spiritual self-image that would perpetuate the madness of earthly judgments. That self-righteous, spiritually-correct identity died—rest its soul—and what remains to tell the tale is a swirl of memory, awareness, and yes, a continuing experience of humanity in which any and all of its aspects are welcome to express through this earthbound body-mind currently in retreat in Spiti Valley. All in perfection, all in awareness, all of this crazy humanity a part of divine sport on earth which somehow, it seems, adds richness to the evolution of consciousness.
And yes, Madame, we’ve only just begun. Enter the Andrigene, center stage.

- THE ANDRIGENE -
“It appears that our reluctant guest could use some encouragement to sing more fully,” Madame Xandu observes while maintaining her serious demeanor. “Go fetch the Andrigene, Sir.”
“You’ll just love Jo-Dee,” Sir Xandu remarks to Mingo as he leaves to retrieve the Andrigene. “She is a most amazing and delightful creature.”
“That he is,” the Madame comments while standing to stretch her legs. The hostess responds to the inquisitive look on Mingo’s face by explaining, “Jo-Dee is the grandest success of our genetic experiments with creating hermaphrodites. It began with my idealistic grandfather who manipulated DNA in attempt to create an androgynous balance in the human body to match the spiritual state of non-duality.
“After many abominations and mutants, it was clear that his goal to evolve spiritual beings through genetic engineering was futile. But it did lay the groundwork for my lab’s successful DNA work to create some lovely creatures with the physical attributes of both sexes. See for yourself,” she says while indicating the doorway. “May I present our permanent and valued houseguest, Jo-Dee.”
Mingo’s breath is taken away by the beauty and grace of the being entering the room in a revealing white robe. The Andrigene bows to the Madame and then approaches Mingo with a left hand extended in greeting, “It is always a pleasure to meet new friends who visit the estate.”
“Thank you,” Mingo manages to respond as he takes the Andrigene’s hand.
Jo-Dee holds onto Mingo for a moment and looks into his eyes. “You are nervous in new company but surprisingly at ease with the notion of my carrying both genders in one body. And you are an honest man,” Jo-Dee laughs while releasing the Candidates hand.
Sir Xandu chuckles as well at Mingo’s befuddled expression. “We should have warned you that andrigenes are naturally empathic and display a lovely innocence in sharing and responding to what they sense in others. You can well imagine that Jo-Dee and her hermaphrodite cousins have enlivened many a dull party here at the estate,” the gentleman concludes while affectionately draping an arm over the Andrigene’s shoulders.
“He has indeed,” the Madame adds with a kiss on Jo-Dee’s right cheek. “But now is not the time for festive distractions, for I have summoned Jo-Dee to help us discover a way for our secretive foreign guest to better express his truth. Join us on the couch, Jo-Dee,” Madame Xandu directs as she and her husband reassume their positions on the divan with the Andrigene in the middle.
Mingo is at a loss to know what is coming next and his anxiety grows as the trio simply stares at him in silence. Without taking her eyes off Mingo, Jo-Dee snuggles up next to Sir Xandu in a way that exposes her ample assets to the perplexity of the Candidate. Her giggle at Mingo breaks the silence, followed by Madame Xandu’s utterance, “Well, Jo-Dee, do you sense anything insightful to share about this stranger from a mysterious land.”
“He is the same as other men,” the empathic Andrigene states, “but also different in a way. I sense that, unlike most people in Endlandius, he knows his soul well instead of only identifying himself with his body of flesh.”
The Madame addresses Mingo in her response. “If this be true, stranger, then threats of killing your body may do little to generate fear in you.”
Mingo smiles at Jo-Dee and the Madame. “You are correct since, although my body does seem to have a mind of its own at times, I do not fear harm to it.” The Candidate unconsciously fingers the slight bulge of the microchip implant underneath his shirt as he completes his thought, “My Essence—my true self—will simply return home when I destroy this physical body upon completion of my field work in a week or so.”
Jo-Dee suddenly bounces on the couch and points with excitement to Mingo’s chest. “You wear something very dear to you above your heart. A locket of a sweetheart perhaps?” the Andrigene asks playfully. Mingo blushes and keeps his mouth shut.
Madame Xandu leans toward Mingo and states, “It is impolite in our culture, stranger, to refuse to answer the question of a lady—or a gentleman. Kindly pay us the courtesy of a response.”
Mingo quietly states, “Above my heart lies a microchip implant that transmits energy to my homeland, primarily so that the university can monitor my progress here in your country.”
Jo-Dee again starts bouncing up and down with glee, enjoying the game of hide and seek with Mingo’s secrets. “There’s more to it than that, Madame,” she declares to her mistress. “He’s holding something back.”
“Well?” Madame Xandu says while looking squarely at the Candidate. Mingo’s only response is to gaze at his shoes.
“Since our friend has suddenly become silent,” Sir Xandu suggests to his wife, “perhaps we should remove the microchip from his chest and glean information from it.”
The desperate and fear-laden “No!” that surges from Mingo’s mouth makes the empathic Andrigene wince. The Madame, however, reacts with a broad smile to Mingo’s outburst.
“We seem to have found the chink in our stoic knight’s armor, and the game of truth nears its completion,” the woman observes. “Shall we discover your true origin through removal and study of the microchip, Mingo, or will you do us the honor of speaking honestly now?”
Mingo states in barely a whisper, “If you remove the chip, it will burn itself up within thirty seconds of leaving my body, and my Essence would…” Mingo cannot bring himself to finish the sentence.
Jo-Dee senses the depth of the man’s fear and completes his thought, “And his Essence, his very soul, would be stranded in our world unable to return home.” Silence prevails as the Candidate stares at the floor.
“Checkmate,” Sir Xandu finally exhales. “Well done, my dears.”
Madame Xandu stands and puts her hand gently on the back of the Candidate’s head. “So Mingo, this microchip implant is what will transport your soul back to your home world, somewhere in the stars, I presume?” The Candidate nods without looking up from the floor.
She continues, “Then the stakes are indeed high in this game, including for those of us on planet Ki-ya who need all the help we can get to survive and thrive through the impending upheaval. Rest assured, my friend, that unless you choose to speak the full truth to me, I will have my laboratory extract the implant from your chest in order to glean the thirty seconds of information that the microchip might or might not hold to help us.”
“At the cost of stranding my Essence in this foreign body, never to return home again?” Mingo asks with tears in his eyes.
“Yes, dear, I would. Not with malice, but because that serves the cause to which I am unflinching devoted.”
“To serve your self-centered greed and hunger for power,” observes the Candidate in a whisper.
“Precisely,” she concurs. “Welcome to our planet, Starman.”
THE GATHERING DISPERSES soon thereafter, with the Madame allowing Mingo to retire to a guestroom to rest and prepare for the thorough debriefing scheduled for the morning. Compared to his small room at Topo and Dora’s home, Mingo’s current quarters are luxurious with ornate fixtures, private bath, and a huge wooden bed with soft mattress that he gratefully enters after a hot shower. Despite the mental and physical strain of the full day, the drowsy Candidate cannot sleep and has stared at the ceiling for two hours while going over and over the situation in his mind. The sound of the bedroom door opening brings his attention abruptly back to the moment.
“Are you awake, Starman?” Jo-Dee asks as her feet softly patter across the guestroom floor.
“Yes, I think so,” Mingo states toward the comely silhouette standing at the edge of his bed in the dim light.
Jo-Dee speaks quietly, “Forgive my intrusion, but I wish to see how you are faring after the little game that we played with the Madame led to such disturbing fear in you.” The Andrigene uses her left hand—from the side where the female characteristics are more strongly seated—to gently stroke Mingo’s forehead.
“That is kind of you,” the Candidate responds, “although I question that you allowed your empathic skills to be exploited by Madame Xandu in such a manipulative way against me.”
Mingo hears Jo-Dee laugh briefly as she sits on the bed’s edge. “My mistress has taught me well that we each must be honest with what we feel in the moment and express it openly. I was enjoying our game and wished to support the Madame in her search for the truth from you. I trust as well, Starman, that what we discovered and experienced this evening will nicely serve each person on our journeys, including you.”
Mingo replies cynically, “To serve the incessant human quest for self-centered gratification?”
“That and more, perhaps. For I believe that our souls chose to inhabit these bodies in order to fully experience life in this dense, physical world—which gives our spirit many rich, if oft difficult, lessons to sample. Didn’t your Essence enter a human body for just such a purpose, to undertake research and to learn in the world of Ki-ya?”
“I suppose so,” the Candidate reluctantly agrees.
“Then honor that your human desires will guide the path of your spirit and be honest in satisfying those urges without judgment,” the Andrigene concludes while leaning down to give Mingo a kiss on the forehead.
The Candidate asks for clarification, “Is your desire at this moment to have sexual union with me?”
Jo-Dee places a hand on her new friend’s heart. “No, Starman, but I sense in you an acceptance of me, an ease in you about my dual sexuality, that I find comforting. Most visitors to the Xandu estate perceive me either as a threatening creature whom they avoid or, more frequently, as an arousing sexual curiosity that they desire to fondle.”
“Your inner gender balance is the norm on my home world,” Mingo states to the Andrigene, “although my ancestors were much like humans of Ki-ya today, living as men and women in physical bodies. After our scientific knowledge evolved beyond primitive notions of matter, we began housing our Essences in bodies of pure energy and thus transcended sexual duality.”
“So no physical bodies or objects exist in your world, only energy fields?” Jo-Dee asks, trying to grasp the Candidate’s existence.
“Not quite. For the sake of continuity of our human heritage, we maintain our buildings, universities, homes, and infrastructure in much the same material condition as did our ancestors.”
The Andrigene nods in understanding. “It must be exciting to now be living in a sensual human body, Starman.”
“How very true,” Mingo remarks with a laugh. “After having had my Essence sexually dualized and getting my male side placed into this body, I’ve experienced more adventure, confusion, and excitement than during my entire lifetime back home in a stable energy vessel.” Mingo whispers in his new friend’s ear, “I’ve even met a woman on Ki-ya of whom I’m quite fond.”
“Well, you son of a gun,” Jo-Dee reacts pulling away with a quick right-jab to Mingo’s midsection. “Our Stardude didn’t waste any time in making the moves on the local merchandise. Who’s the lucky babe?” Jo-Dee asks with a grin.
Mingo takes a moment to recover from the Andrigene’s sudden shift to his inner masculine pole, and then answers, “Unfortunately, Marla is one of the four Advocate leaders arrested by the Ruling Council. I fear I will never see her again.”
“That’s a lousy attitude, buddy boy,” Jo-Dee declares as he stands to turn on a light. “But I’ve got just the news to lift your cloudy disposition. I overheard the Madame say that the Ruling Council may release one of the four Advocate prisoners as a token to appease public objections to the arrest of the infamous Falls Four.”
Mingo sits up in bed with new hope. The Andrigene continues, “If two bright guys put our heads together, I bet we can figure a way to solve all of your and your sweetheart’s problems.” Jo-Dee throws another playful punch as he adds, “Hell, we can’t let a Stardude go home without getting laid, can we?”
Mingo is uncertain whether he likes the Ki-yan concept of male bonding, but he is grateful to have Jo-Dee’s logical masculine side as an ally as they spend the next hour discussing all angles of the situation. After much analysis and debate, they finally agree on a strategy to pursue.
“With my pull with the Madame, it should be a cinch,” Jo-Dee declares confidently at the end of the strategy session. “I’ll give her the full lowdown tonight—if you catch my drift—and by the time you meet with her tomorrow morning, everything should be smooth as silk.”
“Sounds great,” Mingo states as he slaps his friend on the back. They share a firm handshake, after which Jo-Dee lowers his eyes and takes a moment for a deep breath. When the Andrigene looks up, she reaches to Mingo with her left hand and stands on her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek.
“I hope you do not mind the abrupt polarity shifts between my female and male characteristics. Usually around people, I only alter the angle of my spin a few degrees, but with you I feel comfortable exposing my extremes.”
“No problem,” the Candidate responds with a warm embrace.
The Andrigene brushes Mingo’s cheek with her hand as she turns to leave the room. “Sleep well, Starman, and may all your dreams come true when we meet tomorrow morning with the Madame.”

CHAPTER 9

The Return of the Great Saber Cat shall Herald the Beginning of the End.


The rhythmic drumming from my elderly neighbors’ prayer room came late this morning, closer to seven o’clock than the usual six. I am always happy to hear its beat, its familiar cadence mirroring that of Native American ceremonies half a world away. Wondering now, from where does this universal human urge spring to stretch the skin of ibex or deer or impala and to feel the ancient beat in ear and soul—no, not just to feel it, but to experience the act of creating it, of drumming it?
The current cadence of the Spiti drum may sound similar to that of American tribes, but the purpose of the beat is far different. These Spiti elders, like good Buddhists throughout Tibet, are preparing for death in order to facilitate a favorable transition into the next life and beyond. Old age in the Tibetan tradition is a time to let go of earthly attachments, to prepare the mind for the moment when its worn body is shed. Typically, the local lama is called in to join the relatives at the death bed to read ancient texts from The Tibetan Book of the Dead over the corpse to help the deceased’s mind understand what is happening; to guide it through its confusion at seeing its lifeless body; to help it overcome fear and to navigate the bardo it has suddenly found itself in, the nebulous realm between one existence and the next.
The idea of a monk reading aloud to a dead person’s mind seems strange to those of us thoroughly conditioned to think of ourselves as the physical body and the brain attached to it. To grasp that our awareness, our true mind can exist separate from the body is a hard concept to fathom—unless you are one who has out-of-body experiences. Often such an experience is reported by those on operating room tables whose awareness is suddenly looking from the ceiling down at their anesthetized body and at the procedures being taken on it by the medical team—details of which they are able to later accurately describe. For most of us it comes as a surprise to be peering at our physical self from a distance or, in meditation, to feel the sense of one’s awareness exist independently from a body which has just dissolved into the unified energy field.
But that is nothing, the Tibetan experts report, compared to the shock at the moment of bodily death to discover that the mind remains intact to watch the drama and to experience the emotions of the event. The distress is mitigated, however, if the deceased has been properly prepared in life for this auspicious moment of its body-death, primarily by having let go of attachments to family, possessions, and worldly concerns that would otherwise create sticky psychological tentacles to inhibit the mind’s journey into its next incarnation.
So the drums beat, incense burns, scriptures are read, chants are invoked, and meditation is practiced all the better to prepare Spiti elders for a smooth transition. Ultimately, transport of their corpses to the charnel ground where they will be chopped and fed to Himalayan vultures is a final demonstration that the self is not this bag of meaty bones but is the Awareness, the true mind that was never born and will never die—and that ultimately will be liberated from its earthly journey to nestle back into its natural state of oneness beyond the illusions of worldly separation.
A few years back, I returned to the States from India after learning that my seventy-something father was fading fast. I arrived in time to watch him succeed in accomplishing in the remaining four months of his life what it can takes decades or more for monks to achieve regarding release of their attachments and transcending the illusion of the false self. Dear old dad—this lovable control freak, Dean of Engineering, conscientious caretaker of his children, and one who definitely had a strong self-identity—surrendered it all in those months.
He became as a child again with no concern for future, no tie to past. Not only did he not care about his possessions, he no longer knew what was his. He could share a warm hug with his children, then let us go without the least concern for our future. And before he died, one of his last statements to his exhausted wife who shepherded him through the transition was, “I don’t know who you are—but I sure do love you.”
With luck, prior to my bodily death, my essence shall reach Father’s state of innocence, of detachment, of heart—preferably without his boost of Alzheimer’s disease. So thank you, dear one, for your loss of a self-identity that now inspires a prodigal son to continue exploring beyond the known self and world. Your parting statement of perfect, non-personal love lights the way, Father-sun. And Mother-creator, your dedication to the cause and your endurance gives me strength to continue along this winding path of spirit.
Perhaps someday, by grace, I will look at this perceived world taking form in my mind and honestly, eternally be able to say, “I don’t know if you really exist, but I sure do love you.” Or so goes the remaining dream that may yet come true for this stranger in a strange land.

- THE STRATEGY -
Dreams are many, stars are few during the quiet night that Mingo spends upon soft mattress in the Xandu estate. Sleeping late, he finds breakfast outside the door, more luxury in this setting of hoary truth and self-centered quests that make the Candidate ponder his moral code. A heavy load to bear he finds, trying to make reason and rhyme out of the human condition in which he is placed. But hopes are clear in his mind this morn, a desire that the Madame will accept the proposal that he and Jo-Dee formulated late last eve, a strategy to relieve the stress that burdens a Candidate caught in Ki-ya’s web.
Mingo hops-to when the summons arrives to return downstairs as the Madame prepares to decree his fate in this foreign land. The Candidate enters the sitting room where Jo-Dee guides him with left hand to sit with her upon the divan facing two large, empty chairs. The Xandu pair enter in matching robes of violet, the hue of the day, and take their positions to play the next round in the game of life. Greetings are spoken, words as a token of peace to begin the meeting in fair fashion. No passion in the voices, but a small smile breaks across the face of Madame Xandu as she gets down to the business at hand.
“You have a persuasive proponent, Mingo,” the Madame says with an affectionate glance at Jo-Dee, “and I believe we will arrive this morning at an accommodation acceptable to all parties. But I wish to hear the truth from your own mouth as you describe the salient points that support your proposal for freedom. Be concise and clear.”
Mingo wastes no time in responding, “First, no information is currently stored in my microchip transmitter, thus you would gain nothing from its removal from my chest. Second, beyond the vibracorder, I have access to no technology from my home planet that could assist you. Third, my only value to you lies in my ability to access information about the MacroGeologic changes that Ki-ya is experiencing. If freed, I could provide you with invaluable information through my advanced technical research, through my ability to communicate with the Ethereals, and—with the assistance of Advocate Marla—through accessing the latest prophecies of the Guardians regarding the end of the Third Epoch and what changes they expect to occur.”
Sir Xandu remarks, “I see that Jo-Dee told you about our desire to gain entry to the wisdom of the Guardians. The tribes are understandably suspicious of those of us from the End Lands, particularly we of the Ruling Council. Does Advocate Marla indeed have contacts with Guardian shamans and prophets?”
“So I have heard, Sir, and she has offered to take me with her to meet with them—if, of course, you free her from prison,” Mingo adds with an attempt at authority in his voice.
Madame Xandu laughs as she replies, “You are fortunate, my assertive friend, that your proposal is sound and that the Ruling Council already decided to release one of the Advocate prisoners as a show of good will. After hearing of your proposal from Jo-Dee last night, I arranged for your Marla to be the Advocate selected for freedom—contingent on her cooperation to take you to the Guardians and assist you in gathering information for your thesis research.”
Sir Xandu interrupts cheerily, “And you, dear Madame, shall become the Candidate’s new thesis advisor.”
Mingo feels Jo-Dee squeeze his hand as she exclaims, “Oh, I just love happy endings.”
Madame Xandu corrects the Andrigene. “It’s only the beginning, dear. Mingo has much work to do before the end arrives. And from what the Propheteer espoused in trance this morning, our time runs short.”
All ears open to the Madame to hear more about the Propheteer’s pronouncement. “He made only a brief prophetic statement this morning: The Third Epoch measures its life in days and hours, no longer in months and years. Then he handed me a simple pocketknife to give to Mingo and uttered: The return of the great Saber Cat shall herald the beginning of the end.”
“Puzzling,” Sir Xandu says shaking his head. “Saber Cats have been extinct for hundreds of years.”
The Madame stands and addresses Mingo, “Perhaps our guest from the stars will shed some invaluable light on the darkness of the end days. Come with me now to the office where we shall attend to final details before you board the Hover Express to Gateway City this afternoon with Advocate Marla to journey together to the Interior.”
Mingo’s heart is full with the promise of freedom and adventure as he leans sideways to give the Andrigene a hug and to whisper words of gratitude. Sir Xandu then offers the Candidate a handshake as he states, “We will look forward to meeting you in a few days at our mountain retreat in the Interior to hear what you have learned, young man.”
“What is the name of the mountain where your underground complex is located, Sir?” Mingo asks as an intuitive sense of anticipation creeps into his belly.
“Crestonia, young man. Crestonia Peak.”

- THE RECALL -
The shimmering energy bodies of three people face one another in the center of the Monitoring Chamber bathed in soft, amber glow. Though externally silent, the telepathic trio is busily exchanging ideas, opinions, and concerns in response to the information that the female of the group has related. She straightens her posture on the onyx slab—her stony perch for several days in the chamber—while her conversation continues unabated with the minds of her superiors standing in front.
“Yes, Chancellor” Monitor 105F projects, “my sense of the Candidate’s state of mind indicates that his intention is to assist Madame Xandu in achieving her goals of consolidating power during the time of planetary upheaval.”
“Well then, there we have it clear as day,” the Chancellor huffs, “the Requisite Intent to Interfere with a host world.”
“With all due respect, Chancellor,” the Professor objects, “I feel it is important not to overreact at this juncture. Candidate 105M should be allowed to finish his thesis research and return home on his own volition.”
“While he directly violates the oath of noninterference during his field work on Ki-ya?” the Chancellor asks argumentatively.
The Professor assumes a soothing manner. “These matters can be interpreted from many angles, and all I am suggesting is that we take a liberal view of his actions. Considering the threat he faced after his hosts’ discovery of the microchip implant, Candidate 105M has done admirably in trying to uphold his vow of noninterference with a host world.”
With folded arms, the Chancellor responds, “I still say he should have simply terminated the life of his biological vessel and returned home at the first sign of trouble. For the university to have to initiate a formal Recall is a burden to all of us and a major blemish on his academic record.”
The Professor and Monitor 105F exchange a worried glance. “Is a Recall really necessary, Chancellor?” the Professor asks anxiously.
“Yes. I have made up my mind. Furthermore, the other day after sensing the Monitor’s previous concerns, as a contingency I ordered the lab to prepare a biological vessel from our Ki-ya DNA stock to house your Essence, Professor, in case of Recall—which I now formally institute to end his research. Can you be prepared to depart for Ki-ya by tomorrow to terminate the human vessel housing Candidate 105M?”
“I suppose so, but—”
“Make it so,” the Chancellor commands and immediately exits.
Sadness fills the chamber as the Monitor and Professor take a moment of communion to share their disappointment, each knowing that a Recall at this time will prevent completion of the thesis and seriously limit future academic opportunities. “Do not despair, my dear,” the kindly Professor expresses consolingly, “perhaps we can yet change the Chancellor’s mind.”
The Monitor smiles weakly as she responds, “Thank you for your concern, and I will hold to the hope that an alternative to Recall can be found. But I must admit, I agree with the Chancellor that my male half should have destroyed his human body and returned home yesterday evening after his microchip implant was discovered by Madame Xandu. His fear and mine were both great at the thought of his half of our Essence being permanently stranded on Ki-ya. Even this short-term separation from my significant other is difficult enough to bear,” the Monitor concludes as she gazes at the narrow, slanting walls of her pyramidal enclosure.
The Professor asks, “So why did the Candidate choose not to terminate his biological vessel when danger to his Essence arose and when it became clear that his actions on Ki-ya could contravene his oath of noninterference?”
“I sense that the Candidate underestimates his growing attachment to the personality called Mingo and to the body which houses his Essence. Perhaps my fear is coming true that his judgment is being overly influenced by the personality’s desires.”
“Human desire is indeed a powerful motivator,” the Professor concurs. “I will never forget the exhilaration I felt while operating in the sensual, physical world for the first time. I’m rather looking forward to the opportunity to enter a biological vessel again for the Recall. And you will no doubt find the Candidate’s sensations and emotions of interest as you monitor the deathing process when I terminate the Mingo vessel,” ventures the Professor. “Although, rest assured I will pursue any loophole I can find to justify allowing the Candidate to first complete his research on Ki-ya so that you and he may join in graduating with a full Degree.”
“Thank you, Professor,” the Monitor concludes, sensing that their communication is drawing to a close. “I appreciate your consideration in all these matters.”
Monitor 105F is left to sit alone on the slab in the dim chamber as the Professor returns to the office complex to prepare for the Recall. She closes her eyes and concentrates on tuning into the consciousness of her significant other as he receives various papers and instructions from Madame Xandu in the estate office. The Monitor smiles as she notes that the Candidate’s mind seems to be focused less on paperwork than on an anticipated reunion with Advocate Marla.

- THE REUNION -
Mingo looks with relief at the papers that Madame Xandu has handed him—a valid Outlander travel permit, two tickets for this afternoon’s hover trolley to Gateway City, and far more spending money than he made while helping Topo with the Planters’ harvest.
“In addition, you and Advocate Marla, being non-Guardians, will need permission slips to journey into the Interior,” Madame Xandu explains as she retrieves and signs the necessary papers. “These permits are valid for three days, which should give you sufficient time to meet with the Guardians outside Gateway City and to undertake whatever other Interior-based research is appropriate. We will send our private whorlee to the Gateway City Hoverport to retrieve you at noon three days from now.”
Mingo places the paperwork carefully into his travel bag as the Madame’s warns, “Do not miss this whorlee flight, visitor, for the Sir and I will have little patience if you fail to keep our appointment in Crestonia to inform us what you have learned along the way.”
“Don’t worry,” Mingo assures his stern sponsor. “I am anxious to arrive at Crestonia Peak to investigate the vibrational hum from the mountain and to get more facts from the Ethereals if they are willing to communicate with me.”
“The Ethereals and the Guardian shamans are said to work closely together, so be diligent to first glean what information you can from Marla’s native allies,” the Madame directs as she reaches to an intercom button on her desk. “Summon our two visitors,” she states into the console, then opens a desk drawer to retrieve a simple pocketknife.
“Here is the curious item that the Propheteer said to give you when he mentioned the prophecy of the great Saber Cat.” As Mingo inspects the blade, she remarks, “Even though a Propheteer’s messages may initially seem obscure, with hindsight I customarily find their meaning to be clear and significant.”
The Madame stands to walk across the room while commenting, “Now, I have a surprise for you, Mingo. Two of your friends from the Jeegio Clan of Planters were flown to the Metropolis as part of the Council’s investigation to corroborate your story, and I decided to give them a little vacation.” She opens the door in invitation. “Enter now, Planters.”
“Dora and Topo!” Mingo cries out and jumps from his chair. The Candidate wraps the farmers in his arms as the trio laughs together in the middle of the office.
Topo pulls back from the embrace and looks up fondly at Mingo, “You certainly were right about Mount Satin blowing its top. What a show!”
Dora adds, “Thank heavens the ash blew east instead of onto our field—and that you survived the eruption as well.”
Mingo releases the small woman as he inquires, “Were you able to complete the harvest with the Advocates’ help?”
“Yes indeed,” Dora replies, “just in time to take the trip that this nice lady arranged for us. We were glad to help you out of your predicament as an illegal Outlander.”
Topo chimes in, “Plus, it’s the first time that Ma and me ever been to the Metropolis. Another really big show!”
Madame Xandu raises an authoritative hand to silence the reunion banter. She announces to the Planter couple, “Then I trust you will be amendable to extending your vacation to include a side trip into the Interior.”
The trio looks at the Madame as she continues speaking aloud her thoughts, “Yes, I believe that you Planters accompanying me to Crestonia Valley could prove quite useful. You may visit there with Mingo in a few days, so for now we shall return to the business at hand,” she concludes while escorting the short couple out the door.
“Catch you later in Crestonia!” Topo shouts cheerily as Madame Xandu turns to see Mingo staring at her suspiciously.
“So what is your interest in those Planters really about?” he queries.
“Your heartfelt reunion with your former hosts confirmed my hunch that you genuinely care about these two people. So I have decided to use them to insure that you and Advocate Marla do not get ‘lost’ on your way to Crestonia. As you know, resorting to violence is not my preferred choice, but Topo and Dora will indeed suffer if you fail to show up at the Gateway City Hoverport when the whorlee arrives there in three days to bring you to our refuge in Crestonia Valley.”
“I understand fully,” the Candidate responds tersely. “Any action is justifiable in the cause of satisfying your self-centered needs.”
“Including that it will be useful to have a pair of experienced farmers with us when the Third Epoch of Ki-ya comes to its destructive end shortly. The Sir and I have established quite an extensive seed bank at Crestonia in anticipation of growing crops to support our new community there and to create a strategic position to monopolize the agricultural business in the Fourth World. Depending on the extent of Ki-ya’s destruction, Topo and Dora may be two of the few Planters left alive with expertise in farming.”
“A boon for humanity and a boost to the Xandu position of power,” Jo-Dee adds merrily as the Andrigene appears at the office doorway, “all in perfect orchestration.”
“Well stated, my dear,” the Madame remarks. “Now kindly escort our guest to the patrol car so that Lieutenant Mo can drive him and the Advocate to the Metro Hoverport.”
“Lieutenant Mo?” Mingo asks warily in recognition of the name.
“Yes,” Madame Xandu answers, “the Lieutenant was rewarded for his alert capture of you by being assigned as my personal liaison with the police corps. He will make a fine bodyguard, whorlee pilot, and enforcement officer should the need arise.”
Jo-Dee takes Mingo’s arm and guides him towards the doorway as the Madame places her palms together in benediction at her breast. “Go now, Starman, with my blessings and with best wishes for success in helping us prepare for a prosperous Fourth Epoch of Ki-ya.”
She closes the office door as the Andrigene leads the silent Candidate down the hall and outside to the patrol car. Jo-Dee places a gentle left hand on Mingo’s back while opening the rear car door with her right. As Mingo ducks his head to enter the auto he spies Lieutenant Mo grinning in the front seat and a lethargic, disheveled Advocate in the back.
“Marla!” Mingo exclaims at his groggy friend. “Are you alright?”
Marla barely opens her glazed eyes as the Lieutenant responds, “Her drug therapy and interrogation at the prison has left your sweetie a little drowsy, but she’ll sleep it off eventually. Didn’t I tell you that everything would work out fine if you keep a sense of humor?” the officer adds with a thumbs-up signal as he starts the engine.
“Wow, Stardude, you really caught a keeper in this knock-out woman,” Jo-Dee observes as his masculine polarity takes over at the sight of the shapely Advocate. Marla struggles unsuccessfully to emerge from her drugged stupor as she stares glassy-eyed at the Andrigene leaning over in low-cut robe to gaze at her. Jo-Dee reaches out with his right fist and gives Marla a friendly rap on the chin. “Nice cleavage, doll,” he states with a grin.
“You too, fella,” Marla slurs before her eyes droop closed and she slumps into Mingo’s arms.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” the Andrigene calls out to Mingo as Lieutenant Mo shifts the patrol car into gear and pulls away.
“In other words,” the officer states while glancing at his passengers in the rearview mirror, “the sky’s the limit, Stardude.”

CHAPTER 10

Disappear into the Nothingness of Self to Emerge as the Whole


No, Lieutenant, the sky poses no limit to a traveler who knows his Essence as a vibrant energy field undifferentiated from the world he perceives. Inhabitants of such a universe are bound only by the mind that gives it form—which in the case of most of us Recons, can be rather narrow.
It was in mid-March 1992 that my narrow mind got dramatically and irrevocably bent by a cosmic wake up call. Quite a week it was when out of the blue, both my trusted neighbor Lorraine and sweetheart Ann began receiving telepathic messages from a loving source of wisdom providing inter-dimensional help for their spiritual guidance and for mine.
Ann generally was a reluctant messenger, not wanting her family or medical colleagues to consider her as some New Age freak who channeled in disembodied spirit beings. But one night that spring, her hesitancy was gone as she awoke me around midnight and retrieved my laptop. “Things are moving faster than expected,” was her only explanation.
Sitting in my boxers at the computer, I peered into the glow of the screen with bleary eyes. Ann was next to me in stillness. Soon, in steady voice she started speaking the incoming telepathic message that I dutifully transcribed:
“Sister, dear Sister, there is much we must share. Things are moving quickly, things you must write down. Earth is moving faster than previously thought. Spread the word. Earth is going to go through a beautiful change. There will be no homeless, an abundance of food, plenty for all. With a twinkling of an eye, it will change.
“Earth will witness a great miracle. People will begin with disbelief, possibly hardness. But many will believe and open their hearts and their minds to all that is to come. Rest assured that all is well. All is happening according to plan, albeit earlier than anticipated.
“Soon the earth will begin to change. Many will say this is an ominous sign. Darkness shall pervade, many will tremble, many shall fall. After a period of darkness, earth shall begin to move very slowly at first, picking up velocity as it goes. As it reaches its destiny, beautiful, wondrous things shall happen. People will be lifted up in their awareness. Old ways of thinking will be obsolete. Wavelengths shall change and people may begin to reach their potential as beings of the Light, one with the universe, forever and ever, amen…
“This is a wonderful message and must be spread quickly. We are pleased with your work tonight. Thank you.”
I then asked the telepathic source what is meant by the phrase, ‘darkness shall pervade’. Through Ann’s voice, the answer arrived,
“That is one of the earth changes that is to come. Darkness over the land, which will last for a short period of time. … Earth shall begin its transformation in a very timely manner. Be not alarmed about this. All is well. The Earth will be moving to a new place and time. Many shall be going with it…
“Like the pendulum swings, time is swiftly moving by. Quickly, quickly now. Changes are coming to the Earth. Many of the old prophecies will come true. Some people will know what is happening, others will not understand.”
And here I sit on the same old Earth nearly two decades later, counting myself among those who have no clue about some new and improved universal future. At the time in 1992, however, I was quick to claim understanding and stood eager to spread the word like the source had asked Ann and me to do.
The message was entirely consistent with my view then that Earth was ready for an evolutionary leap, much as I had heard foretold by Hopi prophecies regarding the end times of our planet’s fourth world; by Lorraine’s previous channeling about Earth’s stabilizing web being in a fragile state; and from my born-again brother’s interpretation of biblical Revelations. And I admit to disappointment that a major cleansing of the old world and emergence of a new time, place, and vibration for Earth did not dramatically emerge in the mid-1990’s as I had expected.
But now, is the end of the Mayan calendar a harbinger of dramatic Earth change? Will the next comet bring an era of higher consciousness to the planet? Will benevolent space aliens or a loving Messiah help to destroy the old paradigm and shift humanity to a new plane of awareness, peace, and prosperity as some modern prophets foretell?
Perhaps, if that is what you imagine. However, I now tend to view prophetic visions of global destruction as the seers’ personal projections of their own inner dismantling onto an illusory external world. Not surprisingly, when four horsemen of the Apocalypse come galloping through the psyche to announce your ego’s death, it is comforting to direct them to your neighbors’ door rather than embrace them as harbingers of one’s own demise. So painful as it might be, the journey of cleansing, destruction, and rebirth is likely first within one’s own being, with the resulting changes subsequently reflected in the perceived world rather than vise versa.
While pondering this nebulous topic now from Himalayan heights, a memory just popped up from the mind-bending 1990’s when I was in southern New Mexico visiting my wizardly friend, Roger—one of the modern-day seers whose mind freely sailed the multidimensional currents of the universe, daily checking in with various realms and non-corporeal beings for an update on Earth’s evolutionary leap. It was always interesting to hear of Roger’s perceptions that created his innovative reality. At one point in our conversation that day, he stopped abruptly to stare open-mouthed just above my head. With a touch of envy in his voice, he reported seeing an incredibly beautiful woman from the seventh dimension in my aura.
The sudden arrival of that old memory in my current perceptions has sent me off on a mental tangent regarding the nature of space travel, multidimensional beings, and clues to the journey unfolding. Since Candidate 105 is the one who has mastered inter-dimensional leaps while I have yet to even master ‘3-D Space Cadet Pinball’ (a generous freebie from Bill Gates that is an invaluable meditation tool on my laptop when I tire of composing), we shall turn attention back to Ki-ya where Mingo is lucidly discussing interstellar topics with Marla as their hover trolley fast approaches Gateway City.

- THE RIDE -
In the hours since departing the Xandu estate, the groggy Advocate slept deeply on the hover trolley while Mingo snoozed between periods of studying his vibracorder and compiling research notes. The two seatmates awoke fresh and alert before dawn, giving them some intimate hours in which to share details of their respective adventures since their parting a week ago by Mount Satin. In addition, Mingo has shared with Marla his true origin from the stars plus other facts and plans that arose during his stay at the Xandu estate—news to which the open-minded Advocate has responded with great interest.
“I see. So your microchip implant isn’t only for communicating with your significant other,” Marla observes, “it’s your ticket home to transport your research data and Essence back to join with her.”
“Correct, at the instant I destroy this human body—hopefully at the end of my anticipated field research.”
“Why do you say hopefully?”
The Candidate adjusts in his seat and replies, “Ever since I naïvely showed off my vibracorder and other hi-tech gear from home I’ve been walking a fine line of trying not to break my university vow of non-interference with the host world. I have a troublesome sense, however, that the Chancellor may have instituted a Recall to bring me home early for overstepping that line. If so, any of these human bodies on the hover trolley may actually house my Professor’s Essence waiting for an opening to quietly kill my body, then his, so we can return home.”
His stunned seatmate responds, “You’re full of surprises this morning, Starman. Hearing that you’re from another planet was hard enough to swallow, and now I’ll be looking over my shoulder for some interstellar hitman on your trail.”
“Maybe on my trail. If so, my microchip will act like a homing beacon and the Professor’s physical body—formed, like mine, from Ki-yan DNA collected a millennium ago—will manifest on Ki-ya somewhere in my vicinity. The Professor will then be able to telepathically track me until moving in for the kill with hopes of no mess or witnesses to further upset the host world.”
Marla shakes her head. “Putting aside the gory details, how the hell can your people instantaneously travel between the stars?”
“When you know the world as pure energy and yourself as the awareness, as the mind giving it form, then interstellar travel is no more mysterious than is this hover trolley heading for Gateway City. It all depends from what dimension your mind is perceiving.”
“Which happens to be only from the 3-D realm for your dimensionally-challenged seatmate,” Marla remarks with a sheepish grin.
Mingo smiles back. “So let your little brain imagine a small, spherical planet where the primitive villagers live from a 2-D perspective, believing they reside on a flat world. One adventuresome woman heads due west to discover the edge of the world and instead, after weeks of walking straight ahead, is awestruck by the miracle that her village suddenly appears in front of her. And her fellow villagers, who watch her walking in from the east, deify her for having transcended the laws of their universe—which from our higher 3-D standpoint is nothing special to circle the globe.”
“More likely they’d call her a sorceress,” Marla notes, “but I catch your drift. So on Ki-ya, where our physicists have proven that a curved, four-dimensional realm of space-time exists, a person who traverses 4-D space will be considered as a miracle walker or as a crazy person by those of us still looking through our 3-D eyes and minds. Perhaps 4-D travelers would instantaneously appear in the opposite direction from which they just left, or be seen bounding from mountaintop to mountaintop.”
“Or travel in just a few months from star to star through bent, compressed space in the fourth-dimension, over a distance that appears to the 3-D mind as an impossible linear journey of hundreds of light-years. Which is precisely what my ancestors did a millennia ago to visit other worlds.” Mingo adds. “But then our minds grew to perceive in the fifth dimension which is the realm of pure energy beyond the illusion of matter. We could then travel the space-time continuum much more quickly in our non-material space vehicles and bodies of energy.”
“So you’re a fifth-dimensional kind of guy, eh Starman?” Marla grins.
“Actually, no. My people recently transcended the illusion of space as well as matter, thus bringing our minds into the sixth dimension beyond notions of distance or separate locations. So now we understand the universal energy field as being truly unified, with no boundaries, limitations, or distance between the things we perceive.
“To ‘travel’ across the stars, therefore, we essentially just visualize the place we wish to be, and it appears in our world of perception,” Mingo concludes while gazing out the window at the Ki-ya landscape. “And I, in turn, appear in that place—all with a little boost from the transport chamber back home or this microchip implant in my chest.”
Mingo looks at Marla’s confused face and exclaims in mock frustration, “Damn, I forgot, you Recons still believe that one, objective physical world exists ‘out there’ somewhere beyond your 3-D mind. Get with it, lady. The universe is all just energy and its perception takes form within your consciousness!” he cries out while laughing and shaking Marla by the shoulders.
“Hey, pal, could you keep it down. Some of us are trying to sleep,” a voice grumbles from a nearby seat in the hover trolley.
Mingo whispers a quick, “Sorry,” as Marla leans her head against his shoulder.
“So let me get this straight, Starman. The fourth dimension is some continuum where matter, time, and space are looped or compressed in a way my 3-D mind can’t quite picture.”
“That sounds about right,” Mingo replies.
“Then in the fifth dimension the universe is pure energy reached after you see beyond the illusion and limitations of matter?” Mingo nods in agreement as Marla continues her summary, “And the sixth dimension is where you and your universe are no longer limited by a false concept of space or distance. Then I suppose after transcending the illusory limitations of matter and space, the seventh dimension somehow involves transcending the false notion of time.”
Mingo responds with a burst of admiration, “Precisely! And that will be the next evolutionary leap for my people. We’ve already met star travelers who achieved this advanced stage, whom we call the Time Beings, who appear from our point of view to be able to freely access the past and future. But to them, all existence dwells in the present moment of their timeless universe with no temporal or spatial limitations. Quite a sense of freedom, I’d imagine.”
Marla closes her eyes and remarks, “And maybe the eight dimension opens when we transcend the realm of consciousness itself and quit talking all this nonsense and merge into some state that our mind can’t even conceptualize.”
“Disappear into the nothingness of self to emerge as the whole,” muses the Candidate. “Wholly, holy, holey.”

CHAPTER 11

Jeh-Bar Leads his Parents in a Daily Purification Ceremony


The eighth dimension. The wholly holey. The alpha and the omega. The All and the Nothing. More inadequate phrases used in vain attempt by consciousness to think beyond itself, to speculate about the nothingness that fills the void beyond the mind’s ability to perceive, to reason. To enter that void is the mystic’s dream, a liberation from the false, a return to oneness. Yet, to experience that nothingness can be a personal nightmare, a glimpse of the awful truth, a taste of identity’s annihilation.
I have had a handful of friends who, without preparation or warning, suddenly plunged into that void to experience a moment of complete nothingness beyond the realm of mind and consciousness. Each emerged in distress and fear. One staggered into my room saying she had just lost her soul. Another, a lifetime agnostic, turned immediately to televised evangelists to save him from that hellish annihilation that had enveloped him like a bottomless pit.
And I have sat in silence for days with scores of people yearning to experience that sense of the void, to bring the mind to complete stillness. No perception of sight or sound, no perception of thought or memory. Simply a moment of complete emptiness into which the universe and self vanish—and in that instant to know thyself as that nothingness. Then to open the eyes, to rekindle the mind and its perceptions to see a world take form within you, as you, and you as it. No separation, just the intimacy of knowing thyself as indistinguishable from the universe perceived.
Perhaps that is where my Mindgame to Remembrance ultimately leads, to the paradoxical place of being nothing and everything. But for the time being, I am still looking for the Time Being. This elusive character has flitted in my consciousness ever since composing the final dialogue in A Mindgame to Remembrance (the initial book of the Mindgame series written in 2004) wherein a wise Spiti lama alluded to the existence of some female time being whom I should get to know first before looking for what’s on second. This advice had spontaneously popped out from my psyche and typing fingers without forethought while composing the end of that book—thus I took to heart the directive to look for the Time Being as a clue from the guiding maestro-mind of my spiritual journey.
The clue fit well with past glimpses during nocturnal dreams and in my intuition regarding some inner feminine aspect needing to come to light and with whom I must to reconcile for wholeness. Thus I have kept an eye open for a womanly Time Being to emerge from my psyche or the ethers—or better yet, in physical form—for a soulful reunion and a cosmic experience of oneness. But her nature and presence have proved elusive and, in late 2008, I began composing the next book in the Mindgame series, entitled Dream On to Freedom, with the hope of coaxing her into full exposure.
Dream On to Freedom picked up the plot, both in heaven and earth, right where A Mindgame to Remembrance had left off, and it chugged merrily along just shy of the finish. I regret to report that it has lived in my laptop in shame for sixteen months, bare-assed naked without proper ending to cover its tale. I simply could not finish the story since my actual spiritual union with the divine feminine had yet to occur. Or literarily speaking, how can a prince charming kiss his sleeping beauty awake—his Time Being—to live happily-ever-after if I still did not know even where she resides?
Ah, but in yesterday’s episode of spontaneous writing and dialogue between Marla and Mingo, the seventh dimension has suddenly emerged as the realm of the Time Beings. This clue may be of little value by itself, but with a trio of impressive females to now help guide my mind and typing fingers to further insight—i.e., the magnificent Marla, an amoral Madame, and a meditative Monitor—the true flavor of the Time Being may yet be tasted via Ki-ya’s impending shake and bake. A sweetness that melts in the mouth, not in the hand, for those who long to sample the multiple dimensions, the many worlds, that reside within.

- THE GUARDIANS -
“Come in, my friend, come in,” Teh-Wa offers a warm greeting to Marla at the door to her sturdy, round home made of wood and stone. “I was just watching on the telescreen about your release yesterday from the Ruling Council prison. So glad you could break free for our lunch appointment.”
Marla gives a hug to her friend and follows her inside while Mingo lingers on the front steps, gazing down the dusty road at the Guardian village and its people—plus at a number of tourists busily taking pictosnaps. He hears Marla say from inside the house, “I still can’t get used to you and Noh-Wa living down here with the lake people. I’ll always think of you as part of the Bruin Clan chopping wood and hunting in the mountains where I first got to know you.”
“My main spirit guide will always be the big bear,” she responds pointing to the shelf displaying a bruin fetish along with a line of colorful Kachuna statuettes. “But the Laker Clan has embraced us warmly. In fact, in two weeks our eldest son will marry into the clan—unless Ki-ya has other plans for our world in the meantime, which seems likely.”
As the Candidate enters the large round room, Marla states, “I think my travel companion here would agree with your feelings that Ki-ya may shake up plans a bit. Mingo, this is Teh-Wa, a respected tribal leader, medicine woman, and someone I am privileged to call friend.”
“And a privilege to meet you, young sir,” Teh-Wa says while offering the visitor her hand in welcome and looking intently at his features. “I see that significant amounts of Guardian blood flow through your veins, perhaps even some from our tribe.”
“Perhaps,” he responds noncommittally. “I really don’t know specifics of my bloodline, just that it’s diverse.”
Keeping with their decision to minimize exposing the Candidate’s interstellar origin, Marla adds, “Mingo is a MacroGeology student who has traveled quite a distance to join us on this continent to research the changes that Ki-ya is undergoing.”
Teh-Wa laughs. “The full story of our visitor from the stars has spread through the Ethereals, as you call them, who in turn informed me of your travel companion. My ancestors were well acquainted with star travelers,” she remarks while pointing to the Kachuna figurines that depict those ancient astronauts, “but I’ve never heard of one taking on a Ki-yan body before, like your Mingo has.”
“The Kachunas still come around every now and again,” a striking, middle-aged man remarks from the rear entryway while drying his hands on a small towel, “but they only show up as pure energy, not in physical alien bodies anymore. Their telepathic communication can still be quite strong, however, for those of us with the ears to hear their helpful messages.”
“My husband, Noh-Wa,” Teh-Wa states in introduction to Mingo, “whose ears are always open to the latest gossip, whatever dimension the source.”
Noh-Wa nods in agreement and greeting. “Maybe we can all put our facts and heads together over lunch and determine what Ki-ya has in mind for herself and for our futures. Then I’ll be happy to show our guests my two-year project which is on the brink of completion.”
Marla explains to Mingo, “Noh-Wa moved down to the lake with the family two years ago to begin building a big— ”
“Now, Advocate, don’t go spoiling my surprise for our traveler. First things first,” Noh-Wa interjects as he and Teh-Wa retrieve steaming trays of food from the kitchen counter opposite the sitting area of the large round room. “Our eldest son will join us for lunch a bit later, if he can get off work. But let’s begin without him, shall we?”
The hosts take a moment to say quiet prayers and to symbolically offer food to the six directions. When they sit down at the table and start dishing up the meal, Marla casually asks about their son, “So how is Loo-Al these days? He must have turned twenty since the last time I saw him.”
“He’s fine but still a bit short-fused when it comes to authority and the Federation policies towards Guardians,” his mother answers. “And I guess you haven’t heard that he changed his name to Jeh-Bar in preparation for the wedding, a necessity for shifting from the Bruin clan to becoming a Laker. He’s grown into a fine young man of whom we’re quite proud.”
Her husband adds, “Although he doesn’t feel the same about his parents, I’m afraid. He thinks we sold our souls by moving into Gateway City’s featured attraction—this ‘authentic’ Guardian village built to promote tourism. Plus, my big project that you’ll see after lunch has been funded by the Federation in order to, according to Jeh-Bar, exploit our cultural heritage and to make a bunch of End Land tourists happy. Which is probably quite accurate,” Noh-Wa concludes while taking a large bite of fresh greens. “But it was my spirit guides—the Ethereals—who inspired me to create the project and encouraged our move down to the lakeside two years ago to undertake it.”
“And who have been prodding us lately to finish the work ahead of schedule,” his wife interjects. “I get the feeling, on many levels, that time is running short for the Third Epoch of Ki-ya. What do you detect from your research of our world, Mingo?”
The Candidate assumes a thesis-like tone and begins, “This morning after arriving in Gateway City, I took several sets of readings with my vibracorder and compared the results with previous data. The findings indicate that there’s a 90% probability that underground lava movement will break the surface at a number of places on Ki-ya by tomorrow afternoon, including the eruption of at least one more formerly-dormant volcano in the End Lands of this continent. These will be followed, probably within twelve to fifteen hours, by a global outbreak of high-intensity earthquakes some of which will exceed the magnitude of what your planet has experienced in recorded history.”
“What will cause those quakes?” Teh-Wa asks with worried expression.
“Ki-ya’s continental plates are moving at unprecedented rates, creating tremendous pressure at the fault lines where they meet. These stresses are aggravated by the planet wobbling on its axis, which itself is getting worse. By the day after tomorrow, the pressure where the continental plates meet will have hit a breaking point, consequently fault lines around the world will experience massive movement to find a new equilibrium.”
“Ki-ya’s shrug?” queries Marla.
“I hope for people’s sake, yes, that this readjustment of the land masses will be the event, the ‘shrug’ that brings the planet into balance. But if this first round of quakes, plate movement, and volcanic activity doesn’t stop the wobbling of the planet on its axis, then no, there is more to come. In fact, the next thirty hours of activity might actually worsen the wobble, and then we’re really in for some major upheaval.”
Teh-Wa looks earnestly at her guest and asks, “Can any of these quakes or continental movements create a massive wave that could destroy Gateway City.”
“An ocean wave traveling eight hundred miles inland from the west coast over several mountain ranges?” Mingo responds incredulously. “No, I can’t imagine that occurring even under the worst possible earthquake and fault line fracture scenario. Why do you ask?”
Noh-Wa answers for her, “My wife doesn’t like to talk about it, but she’s had a recurring vision of an ancient Saber Cat watching from a mountaintop as a colossal surge inundates Gateway City under hundreds of feet of water. And usually her prophetic visions prove correct.”
The Candidate thinks a moment before remarking, “Perhaps she is envisioning the End Land Metropolis going under water. Certainly the westernmost portion of the Federation, where the continental plates meet at some major fault lines, could slide into the sea even under the current level of stress that the vibracorder registers.”
“Perhaps so,” Teh-Wa comments with little conviction. “Is there any other information you can kindly provide to us? Even though your conclusions are troubling, we greatly appreciate your sharing your perspective with us.”
“Just that your vision reminds me that one of the Propheteers of the Elites foresaw a return of the Saber Cat to Ki-ya as a sign of the final days and hours of the Third Epoch,” answers the Candidate while unconsciously fingering the pocketknife in his pants. “Also, a low-frequency hum that Ki-ya is emitting—centered at Crestonia Peak, according to the Ethereals—continues to strengthen in direct proportion to the amount of growing wobble in the planet’s spin. When I get to Crestonia Valley in two days, I expect to discover that the peak contains high concentrations of quartz crystals in its granite. As Ki-ya wobbles, its oscillating magnetic field teamed with the right conditions of quartz distribution, could generate those electro-magnetic waves.”
Mingo stops talking as he notices a slight smile break onto his hostess’s face. Teh-Wa explains, “It’s interesting to hear you boil down into scientific terms what our Ethereals call a sacred beacon from Mother Ki-ya announcing the time of her transition, and beckoning them to journey to its source. But whichever explanation one prefers, the result of that planetary hum is the same: We are finding that its vibration is improving our telepathic communication and intuitive insight—as if the inter-dimensional veil is now quite thin between the physical world and the subtle dimensional realms of the Ethereals, Kachunas, and our ancestors with whom we commune.”
Marla joins the conversation by explaining to Mingo, “Many people, both native and non-Guardians, have been experiencing over recent weeks an increased capacity for mental telepathy, for actually seeing Ethereals, and for having prophetic dreams and psychic flashes.”
“Even I’ve noticed it,” Mingo states to his travel companion. “Over the past few days I’ve been increasingly able to sense what my Monitor back home is feeling even though I am not in a monitoring chamber and she has no microchip implant sending me signals. Our telepathic communion is that strong—with the help of the energy boost of the humming Crestonia Peak.”
“Maybe while residing at the source of this beacon, even a dense little-brain like me will be able to listen telepathically to the fifth-dimensional Kachunas and swaps stories with Ethereals,” the Advocate concludes with a laugh. “We should be landing at Crestonia in the Xandu whorlee in exactly two days—forty hours from now.”
Mingo checks his vibracorder and with a concerned look comments, “Ki-ya willing.”
YES, CANDIDATE, IF KI-YA is willing—and if your body is willing and the Professor willing—you may actually survive on this planet long enough to complete your research. Confining, is it not, for a sixth-dimensional being who is used to the infinite freedom of pure energy to now be bound by the whims of a planet and its gravity; to be limited by the vagaries of a mind housed in a physical body unable to travel freely with your thoughts?
So hover trolleys and feet and whorlee you must use for traversing this three-dimensional prison of matter and space. And, too, you deftly wield new tools called will, cleverness, guile, determination, and other human characteristics that are necessary for survival and for playing the games of this strange land. You have learned well and quickly, Starman, a success measured by the many who have embraced you, who have satisfied your needs and taken you into their homes and heart. Of course, they all wish to use you to satisfy their many desires, as well. And that’s the name of the wondrous game in this realm that leads, at times, to cooperation, friendship, and even a state of love.
So play well, play mindfully, and play with heart and humor. For otherwise the weight of coming events, of quaking land and shifting sea, will grow too heavy to bear as humanity pays the price for the wobble of a planet.

- THE SABER CAT -
“I swear, if one more tourist sticks a pictocam in my face and tells me to smile, I’m going to take it and shove—“
“Say hello to our guests, Jeh-Bar,” Teh-Wa strategically interrupts as her son enters the round house and slams the door. “And get out of those wet clothes.”
Jeh-Bar gives an absent wave towards the two visitors as he goes to the kitchen to spoon himself some stew. “Why should I change my clothes when they’ll just get wet again back at work this afternoon?” He theatrically assumes an announcer’s voice to declare, “Two shows daily for your viewing pleasure as the courageous settlers once again defeat the noble savages in the reenactment of the historic Battle of Great Lake. And after falling wounded into the icy water, I surface to see that stupid, floating zoo that my own father is building to attract more rich End Land tourists to come experience the ‘natural’ beauty of the Interior. Hell, Gateway City and our native village are nothing but a cheesy amusement park, if you ask me.”
“Mingo, you have just been privy to one of our traditional rituals in this home,” Teh-Wa remarks with a wink to Jeh-Bar. “Our eldest son kindly leads us in this daily purge and purification ceremony.”
Still looking to get a rise out of his parents, Jeh-Bar addresses his father, “Your boat looks like a gigantic turd lying on the shore, you know.”
“Well then, son, if all goes well tomorrow in loading up the animals, it will look soon look like a gigantic floating turd.”
Jeh-Bar finally breaks into a smile and amiably looks round the table. “Nice to see you again, Marla. Who’s your new sidekick?”
The Advocate puts an affectionate hand on her companion’s shoulder. “Mingo is a university student from a world in the sixth dimension about a hundred light years away who has entered a Ki-yan body to study our planet as it hurtles toward its destiny amidst earthquakes and volcanoes,” she answers with a twinkle in her eye.
“Right, and I’m to be crowned Queen of the Lake at this year’s Gateway beauty pageant,” the disbelieving young man responds while getting up and heading with stew bowl to his room.
Teh-Wa looks at her guests apologetically. “So what does the vibracorder register for that whirlwind of offspring energy called my son?”
Marla glances down at the instrument in Mingo’s lap and responds with a sympathetic smile. “It indicates that Jeh-Bar is temporarily regressing into his teen years in order to connect in a familiar, if chaotic, way with the parents he loves and who he will soon dearly miss after his wedding.”
“About a 9.2 magnitude,” the Candidate adds playfully while holding up the vibracorder and enjoying the camaraderie round the table.
Noh-Wa stands to begin clearing dishes as he addresses Mingo, “So much for the surprise of showing you the fruits of my two years of labor.”
“It’s a floating zoo?”
The host winces. “No, Mingo. It’s a full-scale replica of the wooden sea vessels that our Guardian ancestors sailed during the time of great migration. Their animals and food supplies were stored in large quantities in the lower holds, which we too are replicating as part of the historical experience that the tourists can enjoy while taking an hour’s cruise on the lake. Plus, this two-year construction project gave jobs to many of our tribal people and pays tribute to the achievements of our Guardian ancestors—even if does look like a giant turd. As you’ll soon see, these old vessels were designed more for stability on the high seas than for speed and maneuverability.”
His wife adds, “Tomorrow we load the animals into their enclosures, which include male and female members of all our domestic livestock as well as of each of the natural wildlife species that the Guardians depend on for our livelihood in the wild. Then the following day the ship will be set afloat on the Great Lake, christened The Meneekubets in honor of the Eastern Coast seafaring tribe of that name who helped us with woodcraft on the project.”
“Will you be around tomorrow to help load the animals?” Noh-Wa asks the visitors.
The Candidate replies without hesitation, “I’m sorry but my instrument detects a nearby geothermal area that will likely yield important information for my research, and Marla promised to take me there tomorrow.”
“It’s the Geysers Park area,” the Advocate explains to her hosts, referring to the nearby scenic destination that draws many tourists to its geothermal wonders.
“I’m sorry to say that last month’s big earthquake severely damaged the road leading there, and non-Guardians aren’t allowed off the beaten track to take the forest trail to the area.”
“Not a problem, Teh-Wa. Mingo and I have certified permits for Interior travel for his research project.”
Noh-Wa raises an eyebrow and notes, “Sounds like our Starman carries some weight with the Ruling Council. If you wish, Jeh-Bar can guide you up to the Geysers on horseback tomorrow. It’s his day off and he will no doubt welcome the reprieve from helping to load animals and food onto The Meneekubets.”
“Sounds great,” Mingo responds appreciatively. “And as to the Ruling Council, yes I have made some commitments there, perhaps even some friends who in Crestonia Valley will—”
The tableside conversation is abruptly interrupted by Jeh-Bar shouting from his room at the top of his lungs, “That’s only a mile from here!” After a brief pause, they hear him cry, “Holy cripes, some tourists even got it on film!”
The youngster bursts into the round room and exclaims, “A huge Saber Cat was spotted an hour ago on the other side of the lake. I swear, it’s gotta be at least fifteen feet long,” he adds while hurrying to turn on his parents’ telescreen for them to see it as well.
His skeptical father addresses Jeh-Bar, “Even if it is a Saber Cat, fossil evidence and common sense dictate that none could be that big or would…” His lecture peters out as the glowing screen shows clear footage of the huge creature.
Noh-Wa whistles through his teeth. “Have it your way, son,” concedes the astounded man. “It’s a whopper.”

CHAPTER 12

The Professor’s Costume is Inappropriate for Current Ki-yan Culture


June 1st today, another month to unfold, another thirty repeating Groundhog Days (ala Bill Murray’s excellent movie) under new heading. Thirty more awakenings to the same mountains, the same river roar, the same emptiness of sun-drenched Spiti Valley where each morning I am startled by my shadow and shuffle back into a burrow of solitude. Six more weeks, perhaps, of hibernating in this little room harboring a worn keyboard upon which the same thumb regularly thuds to create the illusion of space while eight fingers tap out words and messages from afar in vain attempt to awaken me from my stupor.
I have been holed up here since April of this year, 2010, with no newspaper, television, or internet to provide a tie to a larger world and the news therein. No English-speaking travelers have passed through to tell me who is bombing whom into oblivion this week or how the professional golf circuit is faring with the return of its beloved Tiger—or is it now the formerly-beloved Mr. Woods? I do not know. I have only this moment of perception that repeats in timeless cadence, in empty space.
Faith still carries me through the journey, whispering that all is well, that emptiness and isolation bring meaning to the moment, that solitude and separation from a seductive world of distractions opens-sesame to the mind’s journey beyond its limited conditioning. But it comes as a surprise that I am back in aloneness in the very room to which I came five years ago to consummate my ego death. That occurred on June 12, 2005, precisely 937 days after the nocturnal voice commanded: Satisfy your day to die. 937 days.
Upon that dreamtime message’s delivery in November, 2002, I initially fought the urge to retrieve calendars and to calculate where the 937-day time period ended. Too often in the past I had been temporally fooled along the spiritual path, having taken calendar and clues to heart, thereby wrongly concluding that I knew the timing of upcoming milestones. But then no dramatic earth changes occurred in the mid-1990’s, no darkness pervaded the planet to shepherd in a new vibrational era of light that I had eagerly anticipated.
So in 2002, I simply interpreted the dreamtime number as symbolic of my ego death, wherein the ‘9’ in numerology represents completion; the ‘3’ implies some holy trinity in my dying self as part of the grand finale; and with ‘7’ being this persona’s lucky number indicating that the nature of my impending demise might somehow even prove pleasing to my humanity. Or so went the optimistic flight of thought launched the morning of the message’s dramatic arrival in Colorado cabin.
Two years later, however, I had cause to revisit these conjectures about the cryptic meaning of ‘937 days’ after another dreamtime voice clearly announced that June 12th promised to be auspicious. A little math and a 2005 calendar indicated that this impending date lay precisely 937 days distant from my receipt of the original dreamtime message concerning death. So I took the June 12 dream-date to heart along with another nocturnal message that announced that Spiti Valley was a propitious place for my spiritual transformation. So off I went to Spiti in the summer of 2005 to satisfy my day to die, retreating into this room in which I now recount to you the journey.
As the auspicious June 12th dawned, I sat in silent meditation, soon fully enveloped by the concept of surrender, realizing that total surrender was a key, in fact the only key left to unlock the prison of false self-identity. Nothing remained for the ego self to try, to do, to fix—just to release control and to surrender unconditionally into the flow of existence. Cross-legged on my bed with eyes closed, every inhalation became an in-filling of my intention to surrender; each out-breath an act of surrender itself. My mind reinforced this effort, focusing on the phrase, I will surrender, repeating it like a mantra. I will surrender, I will surrender, I will…
I will. My will. My will be done. The paradox, the cosmic joke became clear in a flash. The act of the self trying to surrender its control is actually an action of that personal control. Thus the stronger my intentions, my will, and my actions focused on surrender, the further I moved away from actual surrender into the moment as it is. With this realization, the last act of the grasping self-identity was finished, understanding that truly nothing was left of a self to do or be or try. And with my fists and face raised to the heavens, the I of the storm shouted with its final breath, “I can’t even frigging surrender!”
And poof, all that remained was the silent watching giving form to this human drama. The Awareness that had been there all the time, forgotten behind the veil of ego, emerged in full clarity—taking its rightful place without the filter of the self-identity coloring this world of perception with its hopes and fears, its trying and doing, its concerns and control. The day to die had arrived, and it indeed proved satisfying.
This was not the ultimate plunge into nothingness, however. The false human self-concept died; even the sense of an individual soul and its journey ended that day in 2005. But the play of consciousness persists. Perception still gives form to scenes of humanity, to sensations of life. And a story yet unfolds as a cosmic dealer of death comes ever-closer to its prey.

- THE HITMAN -
“Hello, Monitor. Can you hear me now?”
“Yes, Professor, that’s much better. Our mutual transceiver system is now fully in sync for telepathic linkup. Are you receiving me well also?”
“Loud and clear. I just wish you could also see and feel, not just hear, what I am experiencing now in physical form on Ki-ya. What a wondrous flood of sensation!”
The Professor detects her laughter as Monitor 105F replies from her chamber, “That’s quite all right. Having to process Candidate 105M’s emotions, sights, desires, reactions, and experiences provides enough sensations, thank you. Have you spotted him yet in Gateway City?”
“No, but I feel that he is nearby. Can you report a specific location for him at the moment?”
“Yes, Professor. He is on the northeastern shore of Great Lake at the site of the Guardian boat construction.”
“Is he alone?”
“Negative. Now would not be an appropriate time to attempt termination of his body. Too many people are present. In fact, I doubt that you will have a chance to catch him alone until tomorrow. He and Advocate Marla have been invited to stay the night with their Guardian hosts in the village east of the lake.”
“What can you tell me about his plans for tomorrow?”
“He and Marla will be guided by a young Guardian, named Jeh-Bar, to Geysers Park for field research via horseback. Few other people, if any, should be at the park due to a road closure, so tracking the Candidate there and striking at an appropriate moment should complete the Recall. Of course, I will be fully available to help you assess his movements and report on his surroundings, including the presence of others.”
“A sound plan, Monitor. Is your telepathic link with him strong enough, do you think, to subtly persuade him to separate from his companions and be alone long enough for me to do my messy job?”
“I can try. The vibrational hum emanating from Crestonia Peak has significantly increased our ability to sense one another. In fact, I am certain I could now telepathically hear his thoughts even without the boost of his microchip implant. And he is increasingly aware of my presence. Perhaps I could influence his feelings on a subconscious level to prompt him to be alone in the Geysers area tomorrow.”
“Fine, we’ll play it by ear and stay in telepathic communication to complete the job of terminating his body. Unless, of course, contingencies arise that justify cancelling the Recall.”
“Actually, Professor, I have been giving thought to that topic. Although I agree with the Chancellor’s rationale for initiating the Recall, I would much prefer if my significant other could complete the field work necessary for our thesis.”
“What do you have in mind, dear?”
“First, if Mingo—I mean, if Candidate 105M does not arrive as planned in Crestonia, Madame Xandu has threatened to do severe bodily harm to the Planters, Dora and Topo. Consequently, your action of killing the host vessel of the Candidate may also result in the death or maiming of two innocent people.”
“That is a serious consideration, Monitor.”
“Also, I reviewed the specifics of Recall policy, and the non-intervention clause that Mingo is accused of violating states that a candidate shall not intentionally influence existing cultures of the host world. What if, Professor, that culture will no longer exist in a couple of days? Intrusive actions he might take now will have no long-term impact on existing Ki-yan societies that will soon disappear anyway.”
The Professor laughs inwardly and responds, “You are learning well the ways of human thinking by intently watching Ki-ya through the Candidate’s eyes these past days. Am I sensing that you, like him, are growing attached to this foreign world and its people?”
“I admit to the desire of seeing what happens with Ki-ya’s shrug and how Mingo’s friends fare as a result.”
“What is the Candidate’s latest assessment of this so-called shrug of the planet?” the Professor queries.
“After the next two days of major volcanic and seismic activity, he believes that the planetary wobble which creates the instabilities will either have diminished or have grown worse, with the latter resulting in global upheaval and catastrophe for the peoples of Ki-ya. Perhaps his field work at the Geysers tomorrow will provide some clarity as to which direction the fate of Ki-ya shifts.”
“Then let us keep our minds alert to events as they unfold, but for now proceed with the Recall.”
“Agreed, Professor. I hope you have found satisfactory accommodations in Gateway City and have a pleasant night.”
“Actually, I must sleep as comfortably as possible outside in the forest tonight. The Chancellor, in his haste to initiate the Recall, provided me with a costume that is inappropriate for interacting with current Ki-yan culture. So I shall be keeping a low profile at all times—or as low as possible, considering the circumstances.”
“Very well. Contact me when you require information or companionship. I am here for you.”

- THE GEYSERS -
A wonderland without the Alice, more chalise than profane where springs and greens and bubbling things give off odors of the deep earth glowing, to keep birth flowing anew. Geysers spray their praise to misty heights, new sights for a visitor from distant shore, a body and mind which longs for more sensation plus information on what makes this planet tick. No trick to the production, no hiding from the destruction that begins this day through volcanoes high and tremors low beneath the feet and hooves of creatures near. Too clear the path to ignore, too dynamic the fluid core of this planet to maintain the status quo. Woe to those caught by shifting plates, pity they who tempted fates and failed to read the signs: The start of new rhythms, the death of tired rhymes.
“And that’s pretty much the story of what I’m doing here on Ki-ya,” concludes Mingo as the three horses come to a halt.
“So you really are a Starman,” Jeh-Bar remarks with amazement while dismounting his pony. “Give me that thing for a minute, would you?”
Mingo hands his young guide the vibracorder then awkwardly slides off the side of his mount while clinging to the saddle horn. “And congratulations to you, Jeh-Bar, on your upcoming crowning as Queen of the Lake,” the Candidate states in sincere tone and with a congenial slap on the young man’s back.
Marla opens her mouth to correct her naïve friend, then playfully glares at Mingo as he breaks into a big smile. “Just joking, dear,” he confirms.
“It seems Starman has learned the nuances of our people’s humor and sarcasm,” observes the Advocate.
Mingo suddenly starts rambling, “So this shaman, priest, and lawyer go into a bar, see, and the shaman says to the priest…”
“Enough nonsense already!” Marla implores as she loosens her saddlebag to retrieve the lunch that Teh-Wa packed for their journey.
“So what did this instrument tell you so far today?” asks the young Guardian while handing the vibracorder back to its owner. “Are any of us going to survive into the Fourth Epoch of Ki-ya?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that last question for certain, but our trip up to the Geysers has yielded important new data—so thanks for bringing us here. This area has the thinnest crust of any place on the continent so the vibracorder can gather better detail regarding the planet’s core. My research today appears significant, although I need to assess the data further before jumping to any conclusions.”
“For the moment, let’s just enjoy a picnic lunch, shall we?” recommends the Advocate as she looks around at the rocky ground for a comfortable patch to spread a cloth. “Why did you pick this particular place for lunch, Candidate?”
“Because of that outcrop, there,” he replies pointing the vibracorder at a yellowish stone ridge. “It has lots of quartz crystals in it and is giving off a mini-version of the vibrational hum emanating from Crestonia Peak. I thought maybe we could get a telepathic boost from it,” he adds while slowly walking toward the ridge and looking down at the instrument readings. “Right over here is the best place, Marla, if you don’t mind a couple of rocks underneath the picnic cloth.”
“Looks fine,” she responds while a horse whinnies across the way.
“Whoa there, girl. Just take it easy,” Jeh-Bar says soothingly while tending the ponies. “The roan has been skittish all day, which isn’t like her. Probably smells something we can’t see among the trees,” he adds while joining his companions at the lunch spread.
“Or maybe she’s sensitive to the volcanic activity that the vibracorder indicates has started up in many places globally in the past hours.”
“Is that what’s causing the haze in the atmosphere?” asks Marla.
“Probably, but it is nothing compared to what we’ll see by this evening.”
“And did you tell my parents that we might have some big earthquakes tomorrow?” Jeh-Bar inquires with a note of worry in his voice that Mingo fails to register.
The Candidate responds with a researcher’s excitement, “Right, and today’s findings show for certain that there’ll be some huge ones starting in the morning, including a couple of good quakes centered not too far from Gateway City. With the continental plates all jostling for position, I imagine there will be a near-constant trembling of the land tomorrow, punctuated by the big jolts. Should be a great day for data collection.”
“Yeah, sounds delightful,” Marla remarks sarcastically. She turns to Jeh-Bar. “Don’t let our Starman’s enthusiasm worry you. Nothing is certain, particularly as the Ethereals, Kachunas, and shamans join with Mother Ki-ya in this process of purification and rebirth into the Fourth World. Right Mingo?”
Her companion does not respond as she looks at him sitting with eyes closed and a contented smile on his face. The Advocate gives Mingo a shove that destroys his composure as he tips onto his side. “My mind just got lost for a moment in its connection with my Monitor,” the Candidate explains. “The vibrational hum from the quartz in this spot really amplifies our telepathic link. Even though I can’t quite hear her thoughts, it’s lovely to sense her presence.”
Jeh-Bar nods his head. “Maybe it’s my imagination, but I can somehow sense that, too—or at least feel you feeling her. And I don’t even know who this monitor is.”
“Sounds as if we may have found another telepath in your family line of Guardian shamans,” Marla observes while giving Jeh-Bar a pat on the hand.
To test that theory, the Candidate suggests to the young man, “Close your eyes and focus your mind into the moment, just relaxing and feeling receptive to whatever is present. Okay? Now, I’m going to project some thoughts to you and see if maybe you can sense, or even hear, their meaning telepathically.”
Jeh-Bar sits perfectly still for a few moments then breaks into a large grin as words take form in his mind. “Welcome to a new realm of perception, young Guardian. For you, the Fourth Epoch of Ki-ya shall denote childhood’s end and claiming your authentic power of the total self.”
“Far out!” he exclaims and opens his eyes widely. “Those words came from you, Mingo?”
“Not from my logical mind, but they just flowed from the moment of our telepathic communion. In a way, we were both speaking and both listening to what was silently spoken.”
“And what were those words,” asks Marla, feeling left out of the loop.
Mingo turns to her and suggests, “Let’s try some mental telepathy together and see what comes for you.”
“Sure, why not,” she replies with false casualness as she closes her eyes and tries to relax into a state of receptivity. She sits in silence for a minute, then two, finally opening her eyes and stating, “Zip, nothing, not even with all this buzzing quartz around and an interstellar psychic by my side.”
Mingo shrugs. “It’s really difficult to undo one’s societal conditioning and to break free from the limitations of the collective consciousness to which you are attuned.”
Marla addresses Jeh-Bar. “I think what he’s trying to say is that it’s easier for you to be telepathic since you grew up in a Guardian culture that believes in communication with spirit guides and such.”
“Plus, one should never underestimate the power of a society’s collective consciousness to tangibly inhibit, even cripple, a person’s ability to transcend the accepted reality of that culture,” the verbose Candidate adds to compound Jeh-Bar’s confusion.
“Can you give me an example of what you’re trying to say, Mingo?”
“Sure. In my people’s own history, when our culture believed we lived in a three-dimensional world and that we ourselves were solid bodies, there were a few pioneering folks who truly understood that they and everything else were actually made up of energy. Thus they knew that their so-called physical bodies did not require food, or need to grow old, or even be limited by space and gravity. Yet the collective belief system of humanity at that time, to which each person was mentally attuned, acted like an anchor to prevent their springing into the freedom of a world of pure energy.”
“What happened to change your world, a big planetary upheaval like we’re seeing on Ki-ya?” the interested young man inquires.
“No, it was just a quiet, gradual process in which more and more people began awakening to the fact that solidity and matter were only false perceptions of their minds’ view of energy. And when enough people, say about ten to twenty percent of the population achieved this understanding, the iron grip of the collective consciousness, of the old reality, loosened enough to allow people to start living as energy-beings free from physical limitations.”
Jeh-Bar remarks, “It must have been quite a time for the other 80% of the population to watch their energetically evolved neighbors start flying around and not growing old.”
“True, we had our share of witch hunts and fear. But the new reality eventually took hold and our people experienced an evolutionary leap of mind and existence.”
“And created a new collective consciousness that supported exploring the world of energy, including telepathic communication,” Marla interjects in show of understanding. She adds wistfully, “Wouldn’t it be great to have that happen globally now on Ki-ya, too?”
Silence prevails while each of the three nibbles sandwiches and cogitates on what was just spoken. The quiet is suddenly broken by the nervous stirring of their horses that brings Jeh-Bar to his feet while anxiously peering into the forest. The animals eventually settle down, however, as does their keeper, and lunchtime ends with no more distractions or big-talk about the universe.
“Would you two mind going on to the hot springs without me? I’d like to stay here to review my findings,” the Candidate remarks while stowing the lunch gear.
“You’ll miss a pleasant soak,” Marla responds, “and I’ll miss you not being there. Bathing in the natural pools is a lovely experience to share.”
Mingo hesitates and finally says, “I don’t know, I just get a strong feeling to spend some time alone here, maybe to commune a bit in solitude with my Monitor.”
“Who is this monitor I keep hearing about?” asks Jeh-Bar.
“Come on, young guide, I’ll tell you about her at the hot springs,” Marla says giving Mingo a look of resignation and pulling the young Guardian by the arm towards their ponies.
They mount as Jeh-Bar calls back to Mingo, “I’ll take your horse with us so he won’t get nervous alone, and we’ll return within the hour. They’ll be plenty of time to ride back home before dark,” he concludes while reining his roan towards the nearby hot springs.
Mingo watches the duo disappear into the forest then turns his full attention to the vibracorder. On the small viewing screen, numbers and graphs and calculations mix with the thoughts of the man swiftly pushing buttons. For several minutes he continues this fast-paced analysis finally arriving at a conclusion that elicits a large and soulful sigh.
He slowly places the instrument on the picnic cloth and gazes up at the yellow stones of the ridge. More than ever, he feels the need for connection, for support from someone who understands him and the difficult stance he maintains with one mind in Ki-ya and another consciousness back home in the monitoring chamber. Gratefully, that support lies only a thought away as the nearby quartz outcrop magnifies telepathic reception. The Candidate closes his eyes and immediately finds himself in silent communion with his significant other.
Joy and relief wash over Candidate 105M as he drifts in the sense of wholeness that has eluded him since arriving in Ki-ya and descending into a physical body, into a three-dimensional world of wobbling land and confounding human dynamics. He and Monitor 105F each feel the oneness of their Essence and their bond that transcends light-years of space. The Candidate forgets where he sits, forgets the Mingo persona, forgets all but an ancient union of which there is no memory, only on ongoing experience as primal as the beat of his heart.
A strange ripple of disharmony flickers atop the pool of calm, causing the Candidate to recall his surroundings and to open his eyes to them. Immediately from behind, a violent blow is struck that sends Mingo rolling onto his back. He looks up in terror as a giant paw descends onto his chest pinning him helplessly to the ground. Fangs the length of his forearm curve from the open mouth of the Saber Cat that rears its head back to release a deafening roar. Mingo tries desperately to squirm free but his frantic efforts prove futile against the powerful beast’s forepaw.
“My, that was exhilarating!” Amid his fear and confusion, Mingo can barely make sense of the words appearing in his mind as the huge creature’s paw keeps him pressed against the hard rock. “No, young fool, a Saber Cat is not telepathically talking to you. My consciousness in it is.”
A split second later, clarity pushes aside confusion as the Candidate exclaims aloud, “Professor!”
“Keep your voice down, Candidate. Telepathic thoughts will suffice. Although I do admit to rather enjoying that roar just now. Have you not found the whole physical experience of life on Ki-ya to be most invigorating?”
“Yes, Professor, I have. Perhaps too much so, which is why you are here, I presume. A formal Recall to bring me home now?”
The Professor removes his paw from his student and places his huge, feline haunches on the ground to sit. “Yes, the Chancellor insisted upon initiating one, although his haste to do so certainly led to a merry mess. If he’d taken time to confer with your Monitor before selecting the DNA for my body, we wouldn’t have ended up with my manifesting as an extinct species amidst incredulous tourists. A thousand years ago a Saber Cat might have been a logical choice for terminating a human body on Ki-ya, but I fear my sudden appearance has disturbed the culture of the host world far more than your actions did. Ironic, is it not?”
Mingo simply nods as a deep sadness joins the parade of strong emotions he has felt in the last two minutes.
Sensing the Candidate’s feelings, the kindly Professor telepathically says, “Yes, it indeed would be a shame to prematurely halt your research and to never know how Ki-ya’s shrug manifests or how it impacts your comrades. What do your latest findings indicate?”
The young man retrieves the vibracorder, pushes a few buttons, and holds it up to the eyes of the Saber Cat. “My…oh my. Tomorrow do you think?” the Professor asks.
“The shift should happen sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“Well then, perhaps this Recall can be terminated rather than your body. Your Monitor came up with some rather innovative arguments to justify completion of research. Plus, in light of the Chancellor’s own error in disturbing the host world via an extinct Saber Cat, I feel comfortable in giving you a reprieve for lesser errors.”
Mingo breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Professor.”
His mentor does not respond, however, as the Candidate senses that his attention is elsewhere. Finally, the Professor projects into Mingo’s mind, “Your Monitor just now telepathically expressed her gratitude for my canceling the Recall. I also took a moment to explain to her why I had not informed her that my costume on Ki-ya was the body of a great Saber Cat. I did not wish to spoil the surprise for her when I sprang into your, and thus her, field of perception. The sense of the dramatic is one of the little pleasures of life that we miss in our comfortable home world, don’t you agree, Candidate?”
“Certainly the past ten days have provided…” Mingo stops, aware of the Professor’s sudden concern.
His mentor explains, “My animal ears detect the galloping of horses, probably your companions returning in response to hearing my earlier roar. Shall we give them and ourselves a healthy dose of drama for my exit home?”
“Why not?” Mingo agrees with a smile while intuiting what the Professor has in mind. The Candidate pulls the pocketknife from his trousers and wields it in front of the snarling Saber Cat just as Marla and Jeh-Bar ride into view. In perfect choreography that only two minds joined telepathically can achieve, the man and creature tangle in a life-and-death struggle in which Mingo, in a final act of strength and courage, plunges his small knife into the great neck of the beast and slices the throat while the creature roars its last.
The microchip implant in the Saber Cat’s hide begins to glow red. “Have a good journey home, Professor,” Mingo projects telepathically.
“Thanks for a memorable send-off, Candidate.”

- THE GATHERING -
“You really don’t want me to tell anyone about your fight with the Saber Cat, not even my parents? Man, was that something to see!”
“No, Jeh-Bar, it would just distract from more pressing matters this evening. Plus, the Saber Cat did not belong in this time,” the Candidate adds while leaning on the kitchen counter of the round house. “Let’s allow memory of it to fade without spreading the dramatic story of its death, okay?”
The young man wags a finger at Mingo. “I know there’s something about this whole Cat thing you aren’t telling me.”
The Candidate nods. “I’m pleased to see your intuition works well even without the telepathic aid of the quartz outcrop. Perhaps someday I will give you the entire story of the Saber Cat, including our fight to the death.”
“Thanks. And I appreciated our mental telepathy this afternoon up there at the Geysers. The experience and the words have both stuck with me, particularly that phrase about ‘childhood’s end’. Maybe it is time for me to grow up and to know myself on all levels.”
“Well, there certainly are many dimensions of self to discover once you open to a reality beyond childhood conditioning and desires—which from my short life on Ki-ya, few people on your planet seem to pursue,” Mingo concludes.
The Candidate feels a friendly hand on his shoulder. He turns to see Marla with Noh-Wa at her side who announces, “The meeting will start in a few minutes, Mingo. Kindly join my wife and me up front when it does, if you please.”
Noh-Wa starts to leave but is stopped by his son stepping into his path. Jeh-Bar gives his startled parent a big hug. “Congratulations on finishing the boat, Dad,” he whispers in Noh-Wa’s ear. “I’m glad you’re my father.”
“Well that was nice to see,” Marla says to Mingo, taking his arm and walking to a less crowded spot in room. “How is my courageous hero, this evening? I still can hardly believe you wrestled that Saber Cat—and won. I hated to see you kill it, though.”
Mingo responds, “I’ve enjoyed basking in the fantasy of it ever since you rode up to witness the hand-to-paw combat. But I have to admit that the fight was fixed.” She looks at him askance and he explains, “We don’t have to worry about any more interstellar hitmen—that was my professor’s Essence in the Saber Cat body, and he decided to allow my completing the thesis research.”
“You bastard, letting me think all afternoon that you were some kind of superhero. But I am relieved you’ll be around this planet a bit longer,” Marla says, punctuated by a quick kiss. “You’re proving useful to lots of folks these days—including to those attending the meeting this evening, I would imagine.”
The Candidate gazes around the big, circular room filled with many Guardian Village residents including laughing children playing in small groups. He spies Noh-Wa beckoning him to the front table as Teh-Wa beats a small drum in simple cadence to call the gathering to order. An elder then leads the group in a wordless ceremony that includes smoldering sage and drumming while the six directions are honored.
When drumbeats end, Teh-Wa opens the meeting. “Thank you all for coming to our home on such short notice and at this late hour. We appreciate, as well, the help that so many of you graciously provided today in loading up The Meneekubets in preparation for its inauguration. We finished the task beneath the most beautiful sunset many of us had ever seen—colors made vivid by global volcanoes that yesterday my new friend and houseguest, Mingo, accurately predicted would erupt today.
“He also said that tomorrow morning will bring major earthquakes to our planet. Based on new evidence today that he shared with my husband and me a few hours ago, we believe that tomorrow afternoon, Ki-ya will shrug and bring an end to the Third Epoch.”
A rumble of voices emerges from the group as this startling news takes effect. Teh-Wa waits patiently until the noise abates on its own accord. She then gestures for the Candidate to stand as she states, “Mingo’s body is of Ki-ya but his spirit travels the stars. He came here with advanced technology that shows us many things about our world, things that fit with what I have seen in vision, with what spirit guides tell us, and that are consistent with the telepathic guidance that the Kachuna’s have brought to help us through the transition to the Fourth World.
“Mingo’s instrument looked into the molten core of Ki-ya today and saw that heavy and light parts of it have been changing places with each other. This creates a wobble in the spin of our planet. The wobble, in turn, makes the heavy and light parts of the core get mixed up even more, which in turn makes the wobble worse and so on. The volcanoes and earthquakes these days are a result of this instability. And unless Ki-ya herself decides to fix the problem, by tomorrow afternoon the wobble will throw the spin of our planet completely out of balance.”
Noh-Wa stands to explain, “Our planet will tilt to the side; or in more technical terms, its axis will shift a certain number of degrees relative to the sun. This we think to be the prophesized Ki-ya’s shrug, as she finds a better angle of spin and comes into a new balance to usher in the Fourth World. Many of us greet this moment with thanksgiving, and trust that all will be well. But the cleansing of the Third Epoch will no doubt prove difficult and destructive.
“Mingo explained to my wife and me this evening that when a planet suddenly tilts like this, the speed of its spin automatically slows down at the same time. Some law of physics about angular momentum and stuff we don’t need to get into now. What is key, however, is that when the planet abruptly slows, the oceans will not. Seawater will keep moving from west to east, completing submerging the west coasts around the globe and working its way across the continents. How far and how deep the seas intrude, we can’t be sure. Mingo?”
The Candidate speaks, “It appears that for several days after the initial surge from west to east, the ocean waters will slosh back and forth over the continents, inundating all areas except perhaps for some pockets in the central mountain regions. On this continent, the End Lands will be immediately submerged tomorrow afternoon by the Great Western Sea, with the water surging onward through the many mountain ranges and over eight hundred miles to arrive at Gateway City. It will come here not as one big wave, but as a gradual surge after being dissipated by so many mountains and miles. Thus when it arrives here, the seawater will flow in and fill up this valley over a period of a few hours.”
“This, neighbors, shall give us a chance to ride out this cleansing phase in our new sturdy craft,” Teh-Wa announces resolutely. “My family will be boarding The Meneekubets tomorrow and we invite you to join us. We pray that the gradual surge of water will lift the ship gently and, by Ki-ya’s grace and spirit’s guidance, we can be carried safely to high ground to enter the Fourth Epoch.”
Silence and nervous tension fill the room as Teh-Wa gazes at the group. The only movement is from a little boy in front who slowly, shyly stands. “Mommy, will there be room on the boat for Mr. Kachuna?” he asks Teh-Wa while holding up his well-worn Kachuna doll. Everyone laughs, a sound and sensation that clears the dark cloud that had filled the room, as many reach to put an arm around a neighbor or share a meaningful glance in anticipation of the challenge and opportunity ahead.
“Yes, Loo-Ka, Mr. Kachuna may come too.”

CHAPTER 13

The question is, Starman, will anyone live to see this new world?


Huge, heavy snowflakes fall thick and fast outside the window this morning, masking the mountain view and bending green-leafed willow branches nearly to the ground. I sit in layered clothing in my small unheated room, long-johns both top and bottom to hold in body heat, a down parka to parry the cold. Hands are enclosed in fingerless gloves made from wool shorn from hardy local sheep, spun by hardy local women who then weave the warming gloves and shawls and socks that befit this valley’s climate—weather that can turn summer landscape into snowy tempest in a heartbeat.
June the 4th the computer indicates when, out of ignorance of date, I activate the time icon. 6:23 am; wireless network unavailable; ninety-two percent of battery remaining, say the boxes popping up at screen’s bottom. This local news is all I have at the moment, since the rest of the world cycles through its events unbeknownst to my limited awareness.
But imagination still runs free to explore multidimensional newscasts and watch events that unfold within the mind’s perceptions. Bold headlines that herald the death of Ki-ya’s Third Epoch race through the brain circuits flashing the breaking bulletin of the return of the great Saber Cat and of animals being loaded two-by-two onto seaworthy craft. My inquiring mind leans close to read the details, when I suddenly realize that these are yesterday’s headlines relating events that I foresaw twenty years ago when the story’s plot first took form. But many twists and nuances have arisen in the past few weeks of actually writing the tale to surprise and inform me of new depths to Ki-ya’s world, to my inner journey, and to the creative interplay between perceived reality and the mind.
Yes, and the elusive Time Being continues to draw closer it seems, particularly this morning. Are you out there, my feminine partner, or in here or in some dimension watching just beyond the reach of my imagination? For so many years, it seems we have played this game of hide and seek while waiting to kiss our heavenly universe awake. You rise to the fore of my psyche and yet when I turn to look, you vanish. Perhaps I have stared too intently, peering with limited 3-D eyes to penetrate some inter-dimensional veil, a curtain that grows thicker the stronger I try to see—like headlights reflecting off a dense fog as I switch to high-beams that only blind me the more.
But I sense your presence now through the mists of time and space. Feeling called to write, I reach again through the veil with word, with thought, with yearning. But maybe that is my error—I reach. The lesson of surrender comes back to me now, one I learned five years ago in this very room where the Spiti River speaks in constant rumble through the window. Surrender, it calls. You cannot push the river but only give in to its surging flow.
Beneath the water’s surface lies a gaping mouth and I, like Jonah, need only surrender to the moment to be swallowed into the dark unknown. But instead I have been taking the stance of a mad Ahab at the helm, desperately searching for the whale, wanting dominion over that which shall engulf and digest me into the nothingness. Watching for vapors on the horizon, I grasp harpoon to catch the great white creature of my imagination, of my fears and hopes.
Of course you dare not surface as I pace the deck with fingers tapping against keys, composing piercing words in another attempt to hook the mystery and find you there hiding within its depths. I still hold fast to the helm, steering the course with firm right hand and left lobe that assert control in familiar masculine mode that served well in this earthly lifetime to manipulate a world to fulfill my desires. But this yanging and banging must end if I am to make room for reunion with the feminine yin aspect that you carry through time and mind, and thus to meld together into one essence, again fully conscious, fully whole.
Receptivity. Yes, that is the word that you wish to awaken me to at this snowy day. To become the receptive vessel, to open as an empty chalice waiting patiently for the infilling instead of banging my head and chasing my tale—that is the message of the morn. The yin, receptivity. And in this willingness to become the empty vessel in which creation may take form, my elusive divine feminine may at last be present in me, as an integral part of me—and we shall be one.
Thank you, dear one, for your whisper this morning. Whether watching our dance of creation across the stars or reclining in heavenly bed where you dream these thoughts of our world into form, I bid you a fond farewell as I turn off glowing screen to descend into the dark, silent depths of emptiness, of receptivity where—with time and by grace—the light of remembrance may someday fully penetrate.

- THE APPROACH -
“Power to the People,” Lieutenant Mo greets Marla with a raised-fist salute and a smirk.
“The sentiment is appreciated, even if insincere,” she responds to the officer while climbing into the Xandu whorlee parked at the Gateway City Hoverport.
“Actually, I was referring to all the new power the people are getting from the hydro diversion of Cascade Falls,” he laughs while taking the pilot’s chair. In response to the Advocate’s steely glare, he adds, “Hey, just joking, lady!”
“Just joking—the popular universal phrase to excuse a thousand racist, sexist, and otherwise offensive remarks under the guise of humor.”
“It works for me,” Mo observes. “So where’s your Stardude?”
“He’s helping a child with a toilet stop at the terminal. They should be right out.”
“I sure as hell hope so. The only safe place today is up the air and away from these damn tremors. The news reports say there’ve been big quakes all over the world this morning and they just keep getting worse.”
“It has been a rather nerve-wracking morning,” Marla concurs. “One particularly strong jolt nearly toppled a big boat on some of us helping to load it with extra provisions and animals.”
“Out for a little sunny cruise, were we?” the pilot asks sarcastically as he looks up at the sky darkened by volcanic ash.
“No, The Meneekubets is still high and dry on shore, but I don’t think for long if Ki-ya has her way.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean, Advocate?”
“Who knows what this jolting day has in store? Mingo will be explaining his versions of it all to the Xandus as soon as you get us to their refuge in Crestonia Valley.”
“Man, that’s some kind of fortress the Madame and Sir have built there. It’s this luxurious underground bunker complex that can sleep one-hundred and could probably hold up through the end of the world.” Another series of tremors shakes the tarmac as Mo adds, “Which it may have to.”
The pilot spots Mingo jogging towards the whorlee with his bag in one hand and a child in tow with the other. Marla shifts to make room in the snug cabin behind the pilot seat as the Candidate passes the six-year old boy to her. “What’s with the rug-rat, Starman?” the Lieutenant asks while flipping switches and setting the engine into motion. “Genetically breeding a new race of alien super-Advocates?”
“Loo-Ka is a special young man whose parents, our good friends from the Guardian Village, have asked us to look after for a while.”
“All the animals made me sneeze real bad,” the child remarks in nasal tone. “I couldn’t even breathe inside the boat.”
Mo grabs the throttle and states, “Spare me the details, kid, and let’s got off this shaking planet and into the sky where it’s safe.”
The banter stops while Lieutenant Mo focuses all his attention on piloting while the passengers look out the side windows. The whorlee lifts vertically into the air. When it hovers far above the terminal, the pilot hits the turbo drive and the craft shoots forward with a burst of power heading southeast.
“This ain’t no ordinary puddle-jumper, folks. This here’s a Whorlee Fan-Jet that’ll get us to Crestonia Valley in half an hour,” the pilot declares with pride. “It only took me two hours to fly the Xandus and their three guests from the Metropolis to Crestonia this morning, and that was more than a thousand miles.”
The passengers do not respond as they watch the Great Lake and Guardian Village beneath them grow smaller in size. The big boat on shore is barely a speck as Loo-Ka plaintively waves to it and says, “Good-bye, Many-Q-bits.” The child sneezes a couple of times before asking, “Will I ever see my family again?”
Marla fights the urge to make empty promises, answering instead, “Let’s prayer that the spirits of the wind and water guide them to safety. And beyond that, we can only hope for the best.”
The two again stare out the windows as the Candidate works with his vibracorder and the pilot converses through a headset with the hoverport terminal. Mo turns his head towards the passengers and shouts, “We’ll have to fly low today because of high-altitude ash. But no problem. There are just a couple medium-sized mountain ranges to cross before getting to the big range forming the western edge of Crestonia Valley.”
The Candidate leans forward to converse with the pilot. “Is that the range with Crestonia Peak?”
“No, that peak is in the parallel mountain range forming the eastern boundary of Crestonia Valley. The valley itself is broad, flat, and arid, maybe twenty miles wide and sixty miles long from north to south,” continues Mo showing off his knowledge. “It is essentially uninhabited because, other than the Xandus and their guests, only Guardians are permitted to enter the region—and them natives maintain it as a sacred place for the spirits, according to Sir Xandu. He also says the valley used to be an inland seabed, but that’s hard to imagine so high in the mountains.”
“With the continental plates moving around for millions of years, anything is possible—particularly in the next couple of days,” the MacroGeology student observes. To continue to get an overview of the area into which he is heading, Mingo asks, “So what lies beyond Crestonia Valley to the east?”
“Nothing but a thousand-plus miles of plains and some forests along the Eastern Coast. Crestonia Peak is part of the Barrier Range, a line of mountains running south to north in the middle of the continent that rises abruptly seven or eight thousand feet above the plain. It’s quite a sight coming from the other direction.”
“Well, I’m glad we’re flying in from the west today. It gives me a chance to see the landscape and assess the effects of some serious MacroGeology stuff coming down in the next hours and days—really serious.”
Lieutenant Mo turns his head to look at the Candidate with a wink. “I hope you’re still keeping your sense of humor about it all.”
Mingo smiles back. “Maybe I could use another joke or two like the ones you told me the other day while driving me and a drugged Advocate to the Metropolis Hoverport.”
Mo immediately and enthusiastically launches into one. “So there’s this beautiful Planter’s daughter, see, and a traveling salesman comes to the door and she’s wearing —”
“Knock it off, Lieutenant,” Marla growls from the back. “There’s a child here with bad allergies but good ears.”
“Just having a little interstellar cultural exchange, ma’am.”
The Candidate leans back and stares out at the seemingly endless forested slopes. He speaks to his seatmate, “You know, Marla, Crestonia really might be a place that won’t suffer the effects of the surging seas. A thousand miles of mountainous terrain is a long way for the surge of the Great Western Sea to carry, and the backwash from the Eastern Sea should be repelled by the Barrier Range in the middle of the continent. Maybe some sloshing will work its way up from the south to Crestonia, but it shouldn’t arrive as a destructive surge.”
The Advocate shakes her head. “The magnitude of it all is just too much to comprehend. How could I even start to believe that half the world’s population may be wiped out in the next hours?”
Mingo looks up from his vibracorder and states, “More like 99% of the population it appears, and time is running short.” The resulting pallor and expression on Marla’s face makes the Candidate immediately regret his error—of judgment, not fact.
YES, STARMAN, IT WAS POOR FORM to casually announce that deadly statistic, one of many errors of judgment you have made in this foreign land—plus one major blunder relating to fact. A gaping omission in your thesis work looms on the horizon, an oversight that if you do not fill, those near to you may die. Strange that a master of space from the sixth dimension cannot sense the unseen, that you fail to look to the heavens and breath in the truth of what lies all around, invisible but ready to destroy.
But this distant call provides little help for you to rectify your error a world of time away. Perhaps those more dear to your moment may lift the blinders as Ki-ya unravels its tattered web.

- THE ARK -
Mingo takes a moment to stretch his legs after jumping down from the whorlee, grateful that the noisy whine of the engine finally subsides. He turns to gaze at a majestic rise of granite behind him. At last, Crestonia Peak takes physical form in the Candidate’s path as he senses its low-frequency hum even without the help of vibracorder. Below him, small cedar-like trees dot the slope that leads to valley floor, a flat expanse of sparse grass and tall brush whose scents fills the air. The view is breathtaking, the air cool, the ground atremble as Lieutenant Mo gives Mingo a shove forward.
“Let’s get into the bunker, pronto,” the nervous pilot states as he walks quickly down the slope. Mingo follows while Marla gathers Loo-Ka in her arms and carries him towards the domed hut that marks the entrance to the underground complex. A simple sign above a massive steel door greets the new arrivals in the hut: Welcome to the Xandu Ark.
The heavy door starts to slowly open as the Candidate remarks, “I must be confused about the meaning of ark.”
“It means a refuge, Mingo,” Madame Xandu explains as she appears in the open doorway in flowing lavender robe, “a place of protection and security oft for storing sacred objects—including yours truly.” The regal woman spreads her arms wide then gestures to her guests to enter.
The group proceeds single-file down a long, downward-sloping passage and through a second sturdy doorway that opens into an ornate hall. “It’s hard to imagine that we’re underground,” Marla remarks while rubbings her hand across the carved wood paneling that covers the unseen concrete walls reinforced throughout by steel columns.
“The stairway on the left descends to our Residential Wing which provides plush private accommodations, a library, and other diversions for our guests.” The Madame leads the group to the spiraling staircase on the right as she continues speaking.”We shall proceed, however, to the Survival Wing on this day of quakes to have some refreshment and begin our meeting which I have been greatly looking forward to, Mingo.” She takes the young man’s arm to walk together down the large staircase. Lieutenant Mo, Marla, and Loo-Ka follow, the boy with wide eyes marveling at the novel sights that keep appearing one after another on this troubling and exciting day.
Suddenly a major tremor hits the stronghold causing each of the new arrivals to grab the stairway railing and crouch while the shaking continues for several seconds. Madame Xandu holds the brass rail firmly with one hand while remaining erect and poised. “We’ve gotten rather used to these periodic nuisances during the morning,” she states when the quaking stops.
“Or at least you have, my dear,” Sir Xandu calls from the bottom of the staircase. As the group joins him, he offers a hand to Mingo in greeting and adds, “I fear my nerves are not as well-suited as the Madame’s to weathering this seismic storm in a confined space.” His disheveled appearance and haggard face confirm his distress.
As the group walks down a brightly lit hallway, the Sir opens a side door to expose to Mingo a long room extending deep into the mountainside. “This is our emergency sleeping room, one hundred individually enclosed cubbyhole-bunks that are thoroughly padded to allow us to slumber safely while bouncing through the night to the rhythm of planetary upheaval.” The claustrophobic gentleman appears nauseous as he whispers to the Candidate, “I call them our little coffin-cubbies, but don’t tell the Madame.”
His wife beckons the two men to hurry along as the group comes to a junction. “Down that corridor is our climate-controlled seed bank, an infirmary, the caretaker’s quarters, a large kitchen, a huge cold storage facility and, perhaps most importantly, the crystal chamber that will provide enough electricity for the ark for many generations to come—as well as for the town that we will construct after Ki-ya shrugs and settles comfortably into her Fourth Epoch.”
The Madame leads her flock down the opposite corridor which opens into an expansive room with high ceiling. Close to a hundred large, contoured chairs are bolted to the floor in curved rows facing the far wall on which two dozen flat telescreens are arrayed from floor to ceiling. She announces, “And this is our day room in which to ride out the bumps in the journey. The screens will give us views from telecams I have placed outside the ark as well as from government surveillance cams overlooking major Federation cities. It may be prove to be quite a show—is that not true, Mingo?”
“Definitely, Madame,” the Candidate replies while flipping on the vibracorder and punching buttons. “I’d say we have fifty-five minutes, an hour at most, until Ki-ya shrugs.”
The startled woman states, “Then let us dispense with further touring and begin the debriefing. Mingo, Advocate, join the Sir and me in my ready-room. Lieutenant, take that wheezing boy to the caretakers’ quarters to join their children. And in forty minutes I want everyone, including that Planter couple and Jo-Dee, to be securely strapped into their seats in the day room.”
“And don’t forget my instructions, Lieutenant,” Sir Xandu adds emphatically as the foursome enters the adjacent ready-room and straps into comfortably padded, high-back swivel chairs identical to those in the day room.
“Thank you for welcoming Loo-Ka here,” Mingo says to the Madame. “I was concerned you might resent our bringing a child along.”
“You already know that I believe all events weave into perfect opportunities, if we but embrace with faith their arrival. No doubt, this Loo-Ka child will make a fine worker. Perhaps while he is still young, I will give him the honor of being my personal servant.”
“The hell you will, lady,” Marla snaps, staring her elder in the eye.
Madame Xandu coolly responds to the angry Advocate, “A chartered hover trolley from the End Land Metropolis will be arriving here tomorrow with forty of our household staff, an equal number of my closest and wealthiest friends, plus a dozen police officers who are impeccably trained and armed to ensure that no one—including you, my dear—forgets their place in the hierarchy of the Fourth Epoch of Ki-ya. Do I make myself clear?”
In the tense silence that follows, Mingo nervously watches the two women stare at one another. He effectively breaks the stalemate by launching into his lecture, “So here is what you have been waiting to hear, Madame. The wobbling of Ki-ya, generated by large-scale displacement in the planet’s core of heavy…”
It takes the Candidate forty-five minutes to present relevant information to the attentive lavender-robed couple who periodically interrupt the speaker with questions. Mingo reviews all findings—from vibracorder data to Teh-Wa’s visions to planetary geophysics—that lead convincingly to the conclusion that the prophesized flood will indeed bring Ki-ya’s Third Epoch to a dramatic and deadly close.
A worried-looking Sir Xandu asks, “Do I understand correctly that when Ki-ya shifts on its axis, the spin of the planet will necessarily slow down but that the ocean waters will keep moving at near the original spin-speed and blast the western coasts at over 200 mph?” the older man asks in shaky voice.
“Correct, in accordance with the laws of momentum. I am hopeful, however, that the surging Great Western Sea will not have enough power to carry a thousand miles and all the way over the big range to our west to inundate Crestonia Valley.”
“So we will be spared the flooding as will the eastern plains?” the Sir posits optimistically.
“No, Sir, the backwash from the surging of the world’s oceans will inundate the eastern regions of all continents, followed by continued sloshing until the oceans restabilize after a few days. Their coastlines may have altered radically, however, since the planet’s shift will cause the tectonic plates to rise in places, fall in others, and reorient to one another.”
“The question is, Starman, will anyone live to see this new world?” asks the Madame.
“I think some people might survive in protected pockets and maybe on sturdy ships. Certainly those of us here in Crestonia, particularly with your underground ark, have as good a chance as anywhere I could imagine to be buffered from the destructive flooding and survive the tremendous quakes that will undoubtedly occur over the next days as the continental plates reorient to a new equilibrium.”
“I’m pleased to hear your positive assessment of what we have created here. Now, Mingo, if that’s all the information, let us make haste to—”
“But nobody has talked about the effect of…” Marla interjects then trails off as the Madame lifts an authoritative index finger to silence the interruption.
“Enough conjecture. It is time to join the others in the day room and watch on the telescreens what Ki-ya’s shrug actually brings,” Madame Xandu announces as she stands and promptly heads for the door.
When the four enter the adjacent room, Topo and Dora give Mingo enthusiastic waves from their chairs in a middle row. The Madame commands, “Save your friendly greetings and reunion banter until a later time, Candidate, and follow me to the front.”
Mingo returns the wave of the Planter pair and gives a friendly nod to another couple in the rear row who are busily securing four children into padded seats—probably the caretaker family, Mingo assumes correctly. Marla goes to retrieve Loo-Ka from them then joins Mingo who has sat up front by Jo-Dee whose face beams with delight at seeing him.
“These are the Sir and my captains’ chairs,” the Madame explains as the couple takes front-row center seats with instrument panels on the armrests. The Sir sits stiffly in his recliner with beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. His wife casually flips several switches on her armrest panel as the wall of telescreens springs to life showing various settings in cities and countryside. She settles comfortably into her chair while remarking, “It won’t be long before some of those scenes start changing dramatically, I would imagine.”
“In eight minutes,” the Candidate announces while reading his vibracorder. “In just under eight minutes the axis wobble will exceed its stability range and the planet will tilt over by somewhere between 20 to 25 degrees, I calculate.”
Sir Xandu leaps to his feet and cries out, “I can’t do it again! I’m sorry dear.” He leans down to push a button on the Madame’s armrest and shouts into the panel microphone, “Lieutenant Mo, initiate our back-up plan.”
Madame Xandu takes her husband’s hand and asks simply, “The whorlee?”
“Yes, dear. I just can’t face getting shaken around in here again. And God only knows how much bigger the quakes are going to be this time during an actual planetary shift. Lieutenant Mo agrees that the whorlee is the safest place to ride out the worst of it.” The frantic man looks at his wife with pleading eyes, “Please, please don’t deny or desert me at this critical moment. I need you fully with me on this one, my beloved.”
Madame Xandu remains poised and calm as she unbuckles from her chair, but Mingo sees the disappointment, even anger, in her eyes. She looks a final time at the telescreens and says to Jo-Dee, “You and Mingo take the captain’s chairs and make sure that the video recorder for each screen continues operating. I was eager to watch the spectacle unfold across the continent, but the view from the whorlee hovering over Crestonia Valley will have to suffice for now. I’ll have plenty of time to watch the replays later.”
“Whorlee engine is fired and ready, Sir,” Lieutenant Mo announces as he briskly enters and strides to the front of the room where the Madame and Sir are explaining armchair panel instructions to Jo-Dee. Mo leans down between Mingo, Marla and the child on her lap, and with a mischievous grin on his face asks, “How about a last laugh to end the Third Epoch?” In sing-song voice he recites, “There once was a girl from Xentucket, who—“
Marla stops him with a gentle slap to the face and a wry smile. Mo grins back as he joins Sir Xandu heading for the whorlee. “I can recite for y’all the rest of that classical poem when we return.”
“Don’t count on it, Lieutenant,” the Advocate remarks. “Fare thee well.”
The Sir stops in his tracks and says, “My goodness, Advocate, don’t make that good-bye sound so final. We’ll be gone for a less than an hour, I would think.”
“Six minutes until the shift,” Mingo calls out. “You’d better hurry up.”
“Make certain, Starman, that all is recorded for posterity,” Madame Xandu states as she turns to reluctantly follow her husband. “And rest assured, this is the last time you will ever see me compromise my true desires in order to satisfy the needs of another.”
“And that’s the truth,” little Loo-Ka adds, punctuated by a noisy sniffle.

- THE SHIFT -
“Three minutes,” Mingo shouts as he hurries back to the front row after giving Dora and Topo each a quick hug and a short explanation as to what will soon transpire. “Three minutes until Ki-ya tilts and slows, and the Great Western Sea surges onto the End Lands.”
He takes the captain’s chair to the right of Jo-Dee, with Marla sitting on the Andrigene’s left next to Loo-Ka who is playing with his ever-present Kachuna doll. As the Candidate snaps his chair’s safety straps into place, Marla asks him, “What about the air?”
“I’m sure the Xandus designed the ventilation system of the ark to filter out volcanic ash and gases. Not to worry.”
“No I mean the air outside. If, as you explained, the oceans of the world keep moving when Ki-ya slows down, won’t the atmosphere also sweep across the land at near its original speed?”
Mingo sits in stunned silence for an instant before shouting in near panic, “Damn, what a fool! Jo-Dee, can you contact Lieutenant Mo from your armrest panel?”
“I’ll give it a try,” responds the Andrigene while immediately fiddling with various switches and dials.
The Candidate strikes his fists against the armrests. “Of course the shift will create a tremendous global wind with turbulence that will be devastating, particularly to anything hovering in the air. And I didn’t see it coming.”
Jo-Dee continues to attempt contact with the whorlee, as Mingo rattles on to Marla—and to himself in attempt to rationalize his fatal error. “On my planet we don’t give a thought to our atmosphere since, as energy bodies, we don’t breathe air or even feel a breeze. It just isn’t part of our consciousness. And the atmosphere has nothing to do with MacroGeology and what a thesis candidate is expected to consider. Seismology, vulcanology, plate tectonics, not air is—”
“Quiet Starman.” Jo-Dee silences Mingo’s outpouring of excuses. “Base to whorlee. Base to whorlee. Do you copy?” the Andrigene calls out.
From the armrest speaker comes the reply, “Lieutenant Mo here, base, but I can barely make out your words.”
The Andrigene gestures to Mingo to speak towards the armrest microphone. “Come down immediately,” he shouts to the Lieutenant. “Wind and turbulence are imminent.”
“What are you saying, Stardude? You’re sounding garbled,” replies the pilot.
“Come down immediately!”
“Actually I’m plenty relaxed up here. You’re the one who seems to need to calm down.”
“No, damn it, I said come down,” the frantic Candidate tries again while looking at his vibracorder. “Two minutes!”
“What in two minutes?”
“Wind!” cries Mingo.
“When?”
“No, wind. In only two minutes.”
“When what, in two minutes?” the confused pilot asks.
Knowing that time runs short, the Candidate simply shouts in a desperate last attempt to rescue the trio in the whorlee. “Come down now!” he commands.
“Look pal, I was plenty calmed down before you called, but you’re starting to get on my nerves. Whorlee to base, over and out.”
As the connection goes dead, the Andrigene asks, “Shall I try to raise him again?”
Mingo shakes his head in frustration, guilt, and anger at the absurdity of it all. “No, Jo-Dee, it’ll be too late for them to land and make it safely to the ark before the planet shifts.”
“Screen number seven,” Marla states and points to the wall. “One of the outdoor telecams picks them up hovering in the whorlee just north of here by Crestonia Peak.”
“I don’t want to watch them die,” Jo-Dee states as tears start to flow.
Mingo reacts in a very human way, as well, to his airborne friends’ impending death and to his guilt for not preventing it. “Darn it, Marla, if you knew about this atmospheric problem, why the heck didn’t you bring it up earlier?”
“I started to raise the issue in the ready-room after your lecture, but the Madame cut me off.”
“But when Sir Xandu said they were going up in the whorlee, you could have saved their lives by—“
“Enough, Mingo!” Marla states sharply. “It’s time to look forward, not back, and certainly not to point fingers of blame. Let me say this to close the topic—and keep it closed for good. Every Advocate’s dream is that one person has the power to truly change the future of the world for the better. Perhaps subconsciously—or consciously—I did just that by remaining silent about the danger of wind turbulence.”
The Candidate responds after a moment’s reflection, “Irrespective of ethics, I do have to agree that it shall be a very different Fourth Epoch here without the Xandus as self-appointed monarchs ordering us all around for their pleasure and with Lieutenant Mo enforcing their edicts.”
A huge jolt suddenly throws everyone against the back of their chairs. Jo-Dee points at screen seven with horror and exclaims, “Look!” She and the others watch the televised image of the Xandu whorlee tumbling through the turbulent air like a dry leaf. Slamming into the face of Crestonia Peak it breaks into a thousand pieces, including two lavender dots dashed against the granite wall. Ki-ya is shrugging.
Holding onto her armrest with one hand, Marla uses her other to reach to the distressed Andrigene who begins sobbing uncontrollably at the sight of the whorlee demolition. From the middle rows of the shaking, jolting, decelerating room, Mingo hears another distraught outburst, this one from Topo who desperately shouts, “How long? How long?”
Mingo yells back while pushing buttons on the vibracorder, “I don’t know yet how long the changing planetary tilt and decreasing spin velocity will take to find their new equilibrium.”
But Topo doesn’t even hear as he and Dora continue their pleadings to their Maker, a lament of fear and woe and pity that has rung through many lands in many ages: “How long, oh Lord?”

CHAPTER 14

How Long, oh Lord?


And the question rings as well among Himalayan heights this cloudy afternoon:

How long is the waiting
How far is the Fall
How long til the trumpet
Of destiny’s call
How long is the conflict
‘Tween freedom and fear
How long til the cry
Of ‘Hosanna’ we hear
How far is the valley
How deep the divide
How narrow my thinking
How toxic my pride
That cages the Essence
In body and soul
That hinders the players
From hearing the toll
Of bell ever pealing
For thee strikes its tone
A note of new meaning
To call the flock home
But wool over eye lids
Entangle the tale
A Babylon flower	
Blooms scarlet yet pale
Colors and horseback
A circus, three rings
Where clowns are our prophets
Concessionaires kings
Seals on the right side
Break open the game
Four horsemen as heralds
In left ring aflame
On center stage enters
The beast brought to bear
Devouring its keeper
Ignoring the chair
The spectators tremble
Their perch totters far
Three days filled with shadow
Three nights without star
Til trumpets ring freely
From heaven to earth
Til death of the ego
Makes room for the birth
Is this a veiled picture
Of what is foretold
Revealing what waits
For both meek and the bold
To inherit the earth
Or the wind and the sail
Will heaven await
Or a contrary veil
Enshroud the true message
Rekindle our pride
Will woman be riding
By destiny’s side
No longer called harlot
Now ‘guidance’ and ‘grace’
Will man have the courage
To look in her face
With honor, as partner
As heavenly heir
No apples, no serpent
A ripening pair
How long til the break
Of duality’s grasp
How long to relinquish
The wounds of the past
To stand at the center
With palms open wide
To cradle the oneness
No longer denied
How long til the Beauty
Transforms the great beast
How long til this longing
Gives over to feast?

- THE AFTERMATH -
“Everyone hold on for a little while longer,” Mingo yells to his companions still being shaken up in the day room. He punches more buttons on the vibracorder before announcing, “Ki-ya’s shift of axis and spin deceleration will finish in about a minute.” He puts down the vibracorder and places a consoling hand on his weeping neighbor’s right arm, inadvertently shifting the Andrigene’s orientation to the masculine pole.
Jo-Dee immediately stops bawling and wipes his eyes and nose with a sleeve. “Looks like we’re on our own, Stardude,” he observes while gazing at the image of whorlee debris on screen seven. “The Xandus are toast.”
“I’m afraid so, Jo-Dee. No one could have survived that crash. And look up there,” the Candidate adds while indicating the highest row of telescreens. Surveillance cams on hilltops above several End Land cities telecast scenes of utter destruction as the Great Western Sea rises to swallow entire populations. Then, one by one the upper screens go dark as the surge destroys the west coast telecams and plows eastward through the continent.
Marla shudders. “It’s difficult to fathom whole cities being buried under that much water.”
Loo-Ka tugs on the Advocate’s arm and asks, “Are those pictures on the telescreen real or pretend?”
Marla swivels her chair to face the boy and give him her full attention. “I’m sorry to say, honey, that those things are really happening,” she states, trying to help a young mind distinguish between the realms of reality and imagination.
“So Lieutenant Mo is really dead.”
“Yes, dear, he is.”
Dejected, Loo-Ka looks down to speak to his Kachuna doll. “I guess this means we don’t get to find out about that little girl from Xentucket.”
INDEED, CHILD, MANY MYSTERIES of the Third Epoch and their answers shall remain lost and buried beneath the great cleansing. From the eastern villages of Xentucket that were swept away by wind and sea, to the western Endlandius islands that sank to never rise again, their memories will drift from lore to legend and finally fade into the realm of forgetfulness which inevitably swallows all time.
But for now, those in Crestonia have survived the initial planetary shift and have ridden out three and a half days of turmoil, as the Fourth World sprouts from ashes damp with rain and flood. A tenuous shoot, to be sure, as a dozen survivors cling to life buried within a trembling underground ark. But their sanctuary is sound, born in Xandu mind, guided by prophets’ call, and built with two decades of labor, technology, and coin. The ark’s vast library in the Residential Wing has opened its wisdom to the twelve who trundle its books back to the safety of padded chairs bolted to day-room floor. Little remains to be seen on the room’s viewing screens since all telecams but those in Crestonia Valley have been put out of commission by raging flood.
Even the televised images still on live screens show little but darkness with lightning bolts giving brief flashes of the Crestonia setting: Trees uprooted by savage wind, sagebrush stripped of life, and mountain peaks shrouded in boiling clouds that have battered the land with incessant rain ever since Ki-ya’s shrug sent the atmosphere into turmoil. A great eroded scar, another sign of nature’s power, appears on the mountain range to the west of the ark where seawater surged over the lowest point between the peaks. For hours the water poured through as a dozen pairs of anxious eyes peered at the screen that gave glimpses of a great sea reaching into the heart of the continent.
To the relief of the twelve ark residents, the threatening surge turned to a trickle by evening of the second day when the Great Western Sea began ebbing back towards its bed. In the Survival Wing where chatting resumed and aromas started filling the kitchen, care still had to be taken by those not strapped in bolted chairs or sleeping in padded cubbyholes. Frequent jolts and tremors could send the unwary sprawling at any time, painful reminders that the continental plates continued adjusting to the planet’s new tilt.
But in the deep of this night, the fourth since Ki-ya’s shrug, all is quiet. A dozen people slumber within soft cocoons, while outside the hurricane-force winds and driving rain have ceased their tumult. In the morning, a sky cleansed of ash by rain will give those below a reassuring hint that their heavens shall again be blue, that their days will shine with sun, and that humanity may once again survive to dance its awkward dance on this stage of their Mother planet.

- THE MENEEKUBETS -
Mingo reclines at dawn in a captain’s chair sipping tea in the empty day room while watching the latest spectacle on the telescreens. He hears footsteps from behind, then Marla’s voice saying, “So, the ocean has finally found us. Should we awaken the others?”
“I think not. There’s no emergency at this point since the seawater surge from the south is moving slowly, gradually filling Crestonia Valley like a bathtub,” he states calmly, having grown accustomed to watching worse sights of devastation on screen. In fact, after surviving three full days of darkness with quake after quake shaking him to the bone, this gentle inflow of the sea feels more like a friendly visit than a threat.
Marla puts both her hands on Mingo’s shoulders from behind while looking up at the screens and asking, “Will it inundate our entrance to the ark?”
“Well, so far it has filled the valley to a depth of 150 feet, about halfway to reaching us on the upper slope. It seems to be slowing and my bet is it won’t come this high.”
“The water is beautiful in the early light,” the Advocate observes on the telescreen while taking the teacup from her friend to enjoy a warm sip. It suddenly dawns on her that the beauty of the morning scene is made possible by the recent lifting of the sky’s pervasive darkness and turbulent clouds. She asks tentatively, “Is the worst over?”
“So it would seem,” the Candidate responds while tapping his vibracorder. “Our continental plate has stabilized so the big quakes should be finished. And the atmosphere too has finally settled down. I predict this surge of seawater will start ebbing back south by midday.”
“It’s as if the flowing waters are bringing a final, gentle cleansing to our land, a gift from Ki-ya to begin afresh in the Fourth World.” The woman looks again at the telescreens and suggests, “Let’s go up to breathe some outside air and pay our respects to a new world.”
Mingo takes the teacup back from Marla. “Maybe I will after breakfast. But feel free to go yourself now if you wish. There should be no danger, just a chill in the air.”
The Advocate sits in the other captain’s chair, swiveling to face her friend. “So why the sad eyes this morning, Starman, and the reluctance to emerge into fresh air?”
The Candidate gives her a weak smile that mirrors the melancholy in his eyes. “When I go outside today, I’ll need to take some final vibracorder readings and when those measurements are complete, so is my field research—and I am obligated by university rules to go straight home then. I guess I’m just reluctant to say farewell to friends, to Ki-ya, and to this bodily existence that has been so exhilarating.”
“Giant turd,” Loo-Ka calls out as his feet patter across the day room floor and he jumps into Marla’s lap.
“That’s not language a little boy should use to start the day,” she gently admonishes while giving the child a squeeze.
“But that’s what my brother, Jeh-Bar, calls it,” the youngster protests.
“Calls what?”
Mingo answers the question as he leaps to his feet and exclaims, “The Meneekubets!” He and Loo-Ka both point to screen four where the boat appears as a distant dropping on the incoming surge of seawater. The Candidate continues in excited voice, “I bet your fami—” But he wisely stops, not wanting to give the child false hope that his family and other Guardians in the boat could have survived the battering of wind, rain, and sea over the past four days.
Loo-Ka pays no heed as his attention and finger now both point to the day-room’s entryway. “Mr. Wind has come!” he announces.
Mingo telepathically hears a message in his head from the newly arrived Ethereal, “Yes, Starman, it is logical to conclude that none survived the voyage from Gateway City. But Teh-Wa sent me to tell you and the child that those in The Meneekubets are all well, if rather bruised and exhausted from the journey.”
“Hooray!” Loo-Ka cries from the lap of a baffled-looking Advocate who is unaware of the Ethereal’s entry and message.
Mingo observes the etheric being glide across the room, bow to him, and telepathically state, “I am called the Spirit of the Wind by the Guardians. And you are the Recon we call the Starman.” The Candidate bows respectfully in return.
“What in blazes is going on?” Marla queries in response to her friend’s sudden mime performance.
“It’s okay,” Loo-Ka answers, “Mr. Mingo is talking with his mind to Mr. Wind for a while.”
Happy to be in telepathic communion again with another being, Mingo senses more information from the Spirit of the Wind than just the words, understanding its guiding role in The Meneekubets’ voyage to Crestonia. The Candidate responds by silently saying, “You have done well, Ethereal, in bringing the Guardian boat to this safe harbor.”
“Thank you, Starman. The Spirit of the Sea and I worked hard to keep the vessel safe and to guide it here intact. Not an easy task as our control over even our own elements—the waters and air—was limited amidst the recent turmoil. Without the direct intervention of those who the Guardians call the Kachunas, all would have been lost.”
“From what star systems do these Kachunas hail?” Mingo asks.
“They choose to communicate only with the Guardians and a few other Recons, so we Ethereals do not know their origin for certain. I suspect that they are those called Arcturians or perhaps the Pleidians, two star races with reputations for helping less-evolved peoples through planetary transition.” The Ethereal leans closer to Mingo and in telepathic whisper adds, “Well-intentioned beings, I am told, although the Arcturians tend to get a bit pushy, while the Pleidians’ feelings are easily hurt when their advice is ignored.”
Loo-Ka holds up his Kachuna doll for Mingo to see. He states aloud, “Mom says Kachunas play with me because they also sneezed a lot when they first came to Ki-ya. That’s why they wore these funny helmets and masks to filter the air,” he explains while pointing to the colorful headgear of his figurine.
The Ethereal explains, “But during recent times the Kachunas travel and speak only in the higher, invisible dimensions from which they manipulated energies the past days to help direct The Meneekubets safely to Crestonia,” the Spirit of the Wind explains. “And I must now return to Noh-Wa’s Ark to finish my task as well. Your Guardian friends and I will see you again in a few hours, Starman.” And with that parting thought, the Ethereal drifts away like a breeze.
Loo-Ka lets loose with another enthusiastic, “Hooray!” as Mingo lifts the boy from Marla’s lap to give him a celebratory hug.
“The Guardians on the boat will arrive in a few hours,” Mingo explains to his confused companion who rises slowly from her chair. “And there is much to do to prepare the Residential Wing for them and for yourselves.”
The boy sounds a final whoop of delight and runs off to tell the others the good news, both about the impending arrival of the Guardian passengers and that it is now safe to move into the comfort of the Residential Wing.
“So Teh-Wa, Noh-Wa, and all are fine?” Marla asks.
“Yes, according to the Ethereal of the Wind,” Mingo replies. “And their arrival shall give me a few hours reprieve from my bodily death and my Essence’s departure home. Perhaps, my fair lady, we shall have time this morn for a final duet on Ki-ya’s new stage.”
Marla gives him a lingering hug, “I’m grateful for whatever moments we have left together, Candidate. You must have learned by now, I’ve grown accustomed to your face,” she adds while giving it an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
“Actually I have, along with a couple of other nifty show tunes,” Mingo states proudly.
“Perhaps, dear one, you should let your dedication to the absurd be buried along with the Third Epoch.”
Point taken.

CHAPTER 15

The Pocketknife will Suffice for the Final Job at Hand


I hope you are not feeling neglected, left alone to read these words while I have been frolicking with other playmates in distant realm. They are a compelling gang, these Ki-yans, providing opportunity for interstellar telepathy, tussling with saber-toothed creatures, and embracing in camaraderie as their playground shakes, rattles, and rolls towards its destiny. It is a difficult world for my mind to exit, particularly when the alternative is another day of mountain cold where my only English-speaking friend is you, an imaginary reader upon whom I continue to foist wordy epistles in attempt to connect with someone or something listening out there.
And your world, friend; what about your playground of perception? Is it a country filled with planters and native peoples struggling to maintain their tie to the earth and way of life? Are dedicated advocates trying desperately to save the whales and wilderness against the machinations of a greedy elite? Is your planet wobbling on its axis in preparation for some cosmic leap into the dawning of an Age of Aquarius or Nirvana or a New Jerusalem or whatever your fast-expanding mind can imagine?
My perceived earth-world certainly contained all those elements in 1990, the year that Ki-ya first blossomed into mental form with similar geographic, socio-political, and spiritual features to its landscape. The world of Ki-ya was to be an allegory for what we modern earthlings face as our comfortable way of life is threatened both by greed and by planetary upheaval that could shepherd in a spiritual awakening.
But in writing the story now, twenty years later, that allegory is passé. No longer do I view this wondrous play of humanity on earth as a battle between right and wrong where dastardly elites subvert the will of the people to their nefarious ends. I tend to agree with the Guardian shamans who see the cycles of creation and destruction playing out in perfect harmony as each actor on the worldly stage contributes to one pole or another just fine, thank you.
As usual, therefore, the cosmic finger points into the inner realm rather than to some external world for where problems, solutions, and allegories apply. Must I then claim my own mind’s wobbling axis that is ready to tilt into different spin; and admit that my inner machinations of greed and control undermine my native spirituality and rip my planter’s roots from fertile soil? Is it in my psyche, not just in Ki-ya, where humanity still wrestles the great fanged beast that threatens to destroy its false identity and return Essence to its true home? Yep, busted again.
But let me take comfort, at least, in pointing the finger for a moment instead at you, my nebulous but attentive reader sipping a foamy latte on patio outside the natural food store. What do you symbolize in this wordy journey? Perhaps you, as a distant watcher, are somehow my elusive partner in creation, the one who whispers from the wings in gentle reminder to look up from the computer and to reach for the stars. Are you about to flick on the lights in my dark prison cell to lead me to luxurious estate and a dinner of gamefowl-under-glass? And what price do you demand in return for granting me freedom and releasing me to complete my research in this spinning Mindgame to Remembrance?
Madame Xandu demanded the truth in exchange for one’s freedom. Unfortunately, I cannot pay that price since I have only speculation, imagination, and fleeting perceptions to rely on in the realm of mind. Notions of truth shift like sand in the windy mindscape, covering then revealing ancient treasures at times, but still providing no solid foundation for setting one free. I can only dig with imagination for the cause of liberation, penning chapter and verse with the hope of ultimately springing free from the bounds of old conditioning and false comforts. Like most lifers incarcerated in our world’s duality, I spent decades—millennia perhaps— decorating my earthly cell, organizing group activities, and lobbying for improved prison conditions. Now, however, the time has arrived to plot an escape.

- THE PARTING -
“Hello Many-Q-bits!” Loo-Ka yells and waves at the approaching boat along with the four caretakers’ children. They stand at water’s edge in the morning sun, grateful to be released from the Xandu Ark, their prison and protection of the past four days.
Seven weary adults likewise breathe in the fresh air amidst their altered Crestonia landscape that looks waterlogged, ragged, and worse for the wear after constant battering by the elements. The same can be said of the Guardians who have emerged from the ship’s hold to stand on deck to stare at the shore of their new homeland. Smelly, exhausted, grateful are additional descriptors of these journeyers who are anxious to make landfall.
“Will they get to shore soon?” Topo asks Mingo. “Dora and me spruced up the Residential Wing real nice for their arrival.”
“It may take a while since the sea’s inland surge has stopped moving the craft northward.”
“But that’s good news, isn’t it—that the water won’t flood us up here?” Jo-Dee posits.
“Right, the seawater will start ebbing back out the valley soon,” answers the Candidate. “And fortunately—or thanks to the Spirit of the Wind—the stiff southwesterly breeze that kicked up this morning is still blowing The Meneekubets straight to our shore.”
Dora squints at the distant boat while trying to make out the passengers on deck. “Looks like we’ll have plenty enough beds for them all. Can’t be more than five or six dozen, counting the youngsters.”
“I can see Mama waving at me!” Loo-Ka shouts with joy as he enthusiastically jumps and waves back with both hands above his head.
While all eyes are on the approaching vessel, Mingo quietly breaks from the group with vibracorder in hand. It does not take long to accomplish the closing research task—to measure precisely Ki-ya’s new tilt and spin—as he pushes buttons to input the latest data into vibracorder memory. A final command electronically transmits all information from the instrument in his hand to storage in the microchip wafer implanted under the skin above his fast-beating heart. The Candidate feels a mix of strong emotions as the vibracorder, his constant companion on Ki-ya, self-destructs to vanish back into the energy field from whence it came. No alien artifacts are allowed to remain on the host world when thesis research is complete.
“Will the same thing happen to your physical body when you destroy it in order to release your Essence and precious thesis data to return home? Will your body just disappear as if you had never come into my life?”
The startled Candidate turns to respond to Marla, who is wiping tears from her cheek. “I didn’t hear you coming. And to answer your question, I don’t really know whether my body will convert immediately back into the energy field from whence it came, or if it will take time to decay after my killing it today.”
“Wavelength to wavelength, dust to dust.” Marla murmurs as she lets loose a soulful sigh while cuddling into Mingo’s arms. “I’m going to miss you, Starman.”
The Candidate attempts to dispel the sad mood by shifting Marla’s attention to the incongruous sight a hundred yards offshore where a self-inflating rubber raft drops from the side of a wooden ship of ancient design. They walk together towards the water, watching as Teh-Wa and her family descend a rope ladder to the raft to be the first of the Guardians to arrive at their new home on the Fourth World. With paddles in hand, Noh-Wa and Jeh-Bar eagerly dig for shore.
Loo-Ka is the first to greet the new arrivals, running knee deep into the water to reach for his mother. He stops short, however, and with a scrunch of his face exclaims, “You guys stink.”
Teh-Wa laughs. “Hugs will have to wait until we’ve had a chance to clean up, sweetie.”
“There’s plenty of hot water fired up in the Residential Wing and clean sheets on the beds,” Dora says cheerily to her new neighbors.
“Sounds like heaven,” remarks Noh-Wa as he wades the final steps to shore and shakes hands with Mingo. “How long were we out there, anyway? Time and everything else seemed to have turned upside down while sealed inside the crowded hold together.”
“For four full days,” the Candidate replies.
“Well it seemed more like forty days and forty nights when penned in with a bunch of animals,” Noh-Wa grumbles as he reaches down for a handful of soil that he rubs between his hands while inhaling its aroma.
“Actually, the days on Ki-ya are longer now,” the MacroGeology student announces. “The planet’s spin has slowed down by twenty percent, which means that rather than each day being twenty hours, it now takes twenty-four hours for your planet to turn one full rotation.”
As Jeh-Bar starts paddling the rubber raft back for the next passengers, he turns his heads to comment, “Twelve hour nights don’t sound so bad to me.”
The Candidate responds, “Only sometimes will they be twelve hours. With the planet now spinning at a tilt, the durations of night and daylight won’t always be the same at different times of the year. In fact, Ki-ya will start having seasons, yearly cycles of changing weather experienced by planets that are tilted relative to their suns.”
“How far did the planet actually tilt over during Ki-ya’s shrug?” Teh-Wa inquires.
“By slightly over twenty-three degrees, with our northern hemisphere pointing away from the sun at the moment, so we are in the cold season here.”
Marla squeezes her friend’s arm. “Enough technical talk for now, Candidate. Let them clean up while we figure out a way to offload animals and supplies from a ship grounded in several feet of water.”
“No trick to that at all. The seawater has already started to recede and in a few hours, The Meneekubets will be sitting high and dry on the slope.” Mingo gives the Advocate a wistful look. “And I have no more excuses to remain on Ki-ya, a fact that my Monitor back home knows well, too.”
“Is the vibrational hum from Crestonia Peak still helping you feel connected with your significant other’s mind and feelings?”
“Nope, four days ago I lost all sense of contact with her when the hum stopped along with the planet’s wobble that helped create it. But she, no doubt, is still monitoring me and my surroundings via the microchip implant,” he concludes while touching its bulge on his chest.
“We’ll see you after we’ve bathed and scrubbed off some of this stench.” Teh-Wa calls out to the duo. Topo leads Teh-Wa and her family into the entrance hut amidst friendly chatter as stories of the past harrowing days are shared for the first, but far from the last, time. Dora and the caretaker’s four children follow the parade into the ark as Loo-Ka scrambles past them to return outside.
“Mr. Mingo, the Kachunas said to give you a message,” he announces while running toward the tall couple. “Something about planting your seed before leaving Ki-ya.” The child pauses as if listening to the air. “They say you have really good…dee-and-ay or something like that.”
The confused man looks to the Advocate for help. “I have no clue what he’s talking about, do you?”
“I have a clue about what planting your seed means, but as to what you’re really good…” Marla’s voice trails off as both Mingo and Loo-Ka turn away from her to focus on a sight she cannot detect.
“Hi, Mr. Wind,” Loo-Ka speaks aloud.
Mingo welcomes the Ethereal with a mental greeting and hears back in his mind, “Perhaps I can translate what the Guardian child is trying to say to you, Starman, since I was telepathically connected to his mind when the Kachunas addressed him. They seem to believe that the genetic material which went into constructing your body contains human DNA from throughout our planet.”
The Candidate concurs, “Yes, that DNA was collected a thousand years ago by ancestors of my people who traveled through the stars.”
“Apparently those travelers gathered DNA samples from all ethnic groups on this planet and each was subsequently incorporated into your genetic structure. The message from the Kachunas encourages you to plant your special seed to ensure perpetuation of all Ki-yan races—an action with which we Ethereals heartily concur for the sake of cultural richness and a healthy genetic diversity for populating the Fourth World. Many of the planet’s races have been wiped out by the past days’ turmoil, I am sorry to say.”
Mingo takes a deep breath and unconsciously switches to speaking aloud to the Spirit of the Wind, “If I had sex with a Ki-yan woman expressly to help repopulate the host world before I return home, that so directly violates the university’s non-interference policy that I would surely be expelled and probably even be quarantined from my people’s collective consciousness as punishment.”
The troubled Candidate walks away to a flat rock and sits with head in hands to think. Marla joins her friend and rests her arm on his back while he silently considers the Kachuna message. Mingo’s attention is distracted, however, by the intrusion of a nearby telepathic conversation.
“Mr. Wind, where do you and other nature spirits come from?” Loo-Ka asks in mental communion with the Ethereal.
“The Guardians gave birth to us long ago,” the Ethereal gladly answers the curious child. “Your friend, Mr. Mingo, would say we are thought forms of the collective consciousness of your people. I was born when your ancestors desired to understand the wind, to lose their fear of it, to have some control over it—and they made up the idea that there was a Spirit of the Wind with whom they could communicate and who would help them. When enough Guardians gave belief to this thought and collectively held the same vision of me in their minds, I formed and took on a life of my own.
“The same for water, plants, and many other parts of nature that people desired to communicate with and get help from. The nature spirits they imagined took on actual existence as energy beings or ethereal thought forms—and we shall remain alive for as long as the collective belief system sustains us. We, in turn, help to sustain those people who manifest us.”
Loo-Ka ponders this for a moment then states, “Maybe I’m also just made up from the thoughts of the Creator who desired to have plants and animals and people to play with.”
“Well said child. And when you come to know your oneness with that Creator mind, then you can fully play the game of creation,” the Ethereal adds. “But let us move our conversation elsewhere. I can sense we are distracting the Starman from his important thoughts.”
Mingo waves good-bye to both beings as they head down the slope towards Noh-Wa’s floating ark. The Candidate looks at Marla and states matter-of-factly, “It is time for the parting.”
“You’d kill your body now to return your Essence home without first planting your seed?” Marla asks as she looks imploringly at her one-man gene pool. “In the times to come, I expect to give birth to children that are needed to populate the Fourth World. And I would happily try to birth a baby with your diverse DNA if you choose to have sex with me this afternoon before you leave.”
“I’d love to, Marla, but I just couldn’t return home if I so flagrantly violated the codes of my society that I vowed to uphold. My lack of integrity would create severe disharmony in the collective consciousness of my people when I got back.”
“I understand,” the Advocate responds with a sigh while watching her troubled, celibate friend walk away from the ark. She slowly follows then suddenly trots to catch up as she sees him take a knife from his pocket.”
They face one another as Marla feels a knot grow in her stomach at the thought of Mingo’s impending death. He states without emotion. “I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. And if this pocketknife could kill a Saber Cat, it should suffice for the job at hand.”
The color drains from Marla’s cheeks as she watches the Candidate unbutton his shirt and expose the flesh above his beating, human heart. Mingo raises the knife to his vulnerable chest hesitating only for a moment. As first blood is drawn, Marla covers her tearful face and whispers in farewell, “Have a good journey home, my brave and beloved Starman.”
“Ouch…”
SO A DECISION IS MADE in an instant and your universe changes forever, Candidate. Was it not an enlivening, confounding, and expansive journey into the fragile web of Ki-ya’s world as it carried you to wondrous new experiences of life, of flesh, of relationships steeped in duality? Plus you certainly altered, for better or worse, the course of many other beings along the way, despite the prime directive not to interfere.
But Marla clearly has no complaints about your rich influences on her life during the ending of the Third Epoch—or with your spontaneous decision to continue the journey together into the Fourth World.

- THE ESSENCE -
“Damn, that smarts,” Marla hears Mingo complain as she drops her hands and opens her eyes in surprise. “Can you help me pry this microchip out? I’m going cross-eyed trying to do it myself,” he adds.
She laughs and gives Mingo a big hug, staining her shirt with blood from where he has tried without success to slice the microchip implant from his chest. Marla reaches a long fingernail into the wound and pops the small electronic wafer into her palm.
“Better toss it onto the ground,” warns the former Candidate as the implant starts glowing red. “It’ll burn itself up soon.”
The Advocate finally finds her voice. “What a glorious surprise to see you standing alive rather than reclining with a knife in your heart. Are you really going to stay on Ki-ya?”
Mingo stares at the microchip disintegrating at his feet. “Doesn’t seem to be any choice at this point.”
“What about another Recall. Won’t someone from your world come to force your Essence back home, as part of their prime directive?”
“Even if the university folks could track me down without the microchip to guide them to my location, my Essence couldn’t make it home without my mind energizing an honest intent to translocate back there—and my honest desire is actually to stay here with you.”
He kicks absently at the ashes of the smoldering wafer and gives the Advocate an awkward smile. “I’m all yours and Ki-ya’s—body, mind, and soul. And that includes some excellent dee-and-ay, I’m told,” he jokes while sweeping Marla into his arms.
She looks up and asks, “So you’re really staying to help create the Fourth World?” Mingo nods with a smile. “But what will happen to your Essence when you die, Starman?”
He shrugs his shoulders while gazing across the devastated landscape and the retreating waters. “Don’t you think it’s time we think about life rather than more death on this planet?”
“Agreed,” the Advocate responds while taking her partner’s arm to walk down to greet the next raft-load of Guardians to come ashore. She suddenly stops, however, with a final question, “How will your significant other react to all this?”
The new, permanent resident of the planet takes a moment to consider his answer while gazing deeply into Marla’s eyes. “She looks quite happy at the moment,” he replies while giving her an affectionate squeeze. “Are you not, Advocate?”
THUS ENDS THE STORY of the Candidate, an Advocate, and the birth of a new world. Call it Ki-ya, Gaia, Earth—our beloved planet has gone through many names in many languages during passage of the Fourth World, spinning at its familiar angle while traversing the sun annually over 365 days of twenty-four hours each. Our ancient Third Epoch has long slipped from memory, while its termination by flood lingers vaguely in our legends, lore, and Bibles.
Mingo and Marla weathered the transition well during the infancy of the Fourth World. The community in Crestonia thrived, its many babies grew strong and healthy, and the land prospered with crops and animals that, with the guidance of Ethereals, adapted to the four new seasons of the tilted planet Earth.
After many decades, the biological vessel that had been created for a brief research visit to the planet finally wore out. Mingo lay on his deathbed pondering the question Marla had raised immediately after removing his microchip implant: What would happen to his Essence upon death of the body?
The answer came simply and quickly as the Mingo body breathed its last—his Essence suddenly found itself in a familiar and comforting condition, albeit on Earth instead of back in his home planet. He was again an energy body, a spirit free to watch and traverse the world of the living. But like the Ethereals, he generally remained unseen by the human inhabitants of a dense, three-dimensional earth—and those worldly inhabitants who did glimpse his ghostly energy body generally were more than a little unsettled by the unexpected sighting.
Watching life as a disembodied specter grew tiresome over time, so Mingo’s Essence began observing the Earth world through the perspective of animals to see and sense their existence from the inside out. Trees and plants also became hosts of his awareness through which he experienced the three-dimensional plane of existence. He once even merged his energy body with a stone to dwell in its perspective where his sense of time slowed to near nothingness while the external world he watched swirled by at dizzying speed.
These experiences of life, however, grew empty for an Essence that had once known the joys and sorrows of human existence centuries before in Crestonia Valley. Mingo’s strong yearning to again take residence in human form eventually made it so. His desires manifested into reality as his Essence inhabited the body of a gestating human embryo. He rested contentedly in the dark void of the womb, feeling at one with his mother-creator before experiencing the exhilarating, painful emergence through the birth canal to bright light awaiting.
And then life, human life! He savored the experience of watching all the sensations from a babe’s standpoint, unlike when he had first emerged as a human adult in a wheat field in a millennium past. The oneness he felt with his mother-creator while in the womb expanded to include all the world that took form within his perceptions. His Essence tasted parental love, dedication, and frustration that surrounded him. He sensed the curiosity, affection, and resentment from siblings peering and poking his chubby little body. All seen by his awareness, all felt with loving detachment, as wondrous new experiences continued to expand his universe of perception and feeling.
And then his little world tilted on its axis, his spin changed dramatically as the toddler began to take on a self-identity. His sense of loving detachment and wonder shifted to the me, the I, the mine that took things personally and began to worry about a future and what others thought of him and how to satisfy his growing needs, and, and…and the self-focused experience of human highs and lows, of pleasure and pain, of love and loss played out for decades until marauding raiders took his life and those of his wife and clan.
The shock of this sudden death left the Essence confused, while its lingering human longings quickly caused it to manifest into another infant, one that died young. But the yearning for earthly life did not die as the Essence again embodied into humanity to watch and grow. More lives, more desires, more experiences, more death, more longings, as one more time after another the Essence shed its aging human costume for a new body, for a fresh role to play in the earthly dramas that unfolded in a fast-evolving Fourth World on Earth. No longer did the pure Essence watch with awareness of itself or with detachment towards the human condition. Mindlessly grasping for more life, it forgot its origin, its oneness with all creation—and thus its Fall into forgetfulness was complete.
I AM ANCIENT NOW, so old that the thunderous end to the Third Epoch is but a faint echo that whispers in my dreams. And I am weary. Weary of life, weary of death, weary of the forgetfulness that has kept me in bondage for millennia. Marla, beloved wife in my first incarnation on this awkward Earth, has long turned to dust, her memory faded to mere fragments of this story. The Monitor, my true partner in spirit, is little more than a wisp of imagination dancing amid an author’s feeble words that reflect our soulful separation.
But there is fresh joy this Himalayan summer amidst the ancient weariness, new insights that give meaning to the madness that began with my plunge into amber waves of grain beneath Mount Satin. For the mountains have begun to hum again, helping an aged, misty mind open to remembrance of its true origin, of its path to wholeness as Essence. I listen this morning beyond the rapids of the Spiti River, beyond the tapping of keyboard, to catch subtle messages from times and places long forgot as they take form in this book, in this vessel that carries me beyond forgetfulness upon the tide of shifting words and worlds.
A gentle voice whispers to announce, to reassure that there was good reason for this Fall into humanity, a noble purpose for having remained in the confining world of flesh, housed in the prison of time, space, and matter for lo these many lifetimes. Take heart, she whispers. Take soul. Take the hand of your other half to open together unto a new realm that shall emerge from the old. Rest assured, all will be well in time—and beyond.

- THE TIME BEING -
“Please come in, Professor. It is nice to see you again.”
“Thank you, my dear. I truly missed visiting you during your six months of quarantine here in the Monitoring Chamber.”
“Has it really been six months already since Ki-ya’s shrug,” Monitor 105F queries telepathically, “and since the Chancellor decreed I shall remain in solitude?”
“Yes, and I must say, for him to keep you this long in complete isolation as punishment for Candidate 105M’s transgressions was unfair.” The troubled Professor adds, “And that punishment coming right after your having lost touch with the other half of your Essence when Mingo removed the microchip implant. I can’t even imagine the horrible aloneness you must have felt these past months.”
“I am fine,” is the Monitor’s only response as she relaxes into the moment of being, her energy body bathed in amber light in the center of the pyramidal chamber.
When no further response is forthcoming, the Professor continues with the train of thought, “Your worst fears about the Candidate’s attachment to his human body certainly came true when he chose to remain forever on Ki-ya.”
The Monitor responds, “Actually, I could feel that his motive for staying there went far beyond simple attachment to the Mingo persona and to his physical existence on Ki-ya. The Candidate wished to find a higher purpose in life, to be part of a quest in building a new Fourth World out of the devastation that had just occurred on Ki-ya. In comparison to returning home simply to complete a thesis and pursue an academic career, this larger meaning to his existence appealed to his Essence, not just to the Mingo personality.”
“Well, I wish he had at least considered how abandoning you to this fate would affect your life and what it…” The Professor stops abruptly in response to sensing the Monitor’s desire to cease these negative thoughts.
“Professor, I truly am fine. In fact, I have never felt better.”
Pausing to drift deeper into their telepathic communion to sense the Monitor’s condition, the Professor utters in surprise, “My, but you are amazingly well.”
“Something very special has happened during my six months of solitude here in the chamber after the Candidate removed his implant. Yes, of course it was initially hard, devastating even, when I could no longer feel his Essence and watch his actions on Ki-ya. I yearned for our connection, our sense of oneness. And that longing teamed with my isolation—with only my mind and thoughts to explore—has opened a wondrous door.”
Telepathically sensing what has happened, the Professor posits, “You’ve opened the door to the seventh dimension, to transcending the limits of time?”
“Yes, I am now able to access the past and future as a Time Being. And it has been lovely to freely re-experience the period six months ago when I was monitoring the Candidate and feeling our bond—particularly in those final days before Ki-ya’s shift when he also could sense my presence due to the vibrational hum from Crestonia Peak that acted as a telepathic bridge between us.”
“So you have not been all alone and disconnected. No wonder you appear radiant.”
“There is more to it.” The Monitor rises from her sitting position on the onyx slab and emanates an excitement that the Professor can perceive filling the room. “I have also accessed that same telepathic connection with Candidate 105M in the future.” She adds with a smile, “Although there he no longer considers himself a mere candidate, more as a spiritual being and a writer of books.”
The surprised Professor inquires, “But without a microchip implant in his chest, how can you monitor the Candidate at that place and time?”
“Ki-ya—or Earth as it is now called—is again wobbling on its axis in the distant future and creating the same vibrational hum that allows me to monitor the Candidate’s every move, thought, and perception in the Fourth World as planet Earth enters another state of transition.”
“Is your telepathic connection strong enough in this future time period for him to sense your presence as well?”
“When he is near a mountainous source of the vibrational hum, yes. Although for millennia he forgot about me and forgot even his own half of our Essence, so it has been a challenge trying to help him to remember.”
“What means have you used to facilitate him awakening from his forgetfulness and to remember his true self?” asks the Professor.
“I telepathically project into his mind dreamtime messages and subconscious suggestions that manifest through his intuition. Plus, I am able to reach to him strongly with telepathic input when his mind plays in the realm of imagination, particularly when he creatively writes. Overall, I encourage him to die to his limited self-identity based on false concepts of time, space, and matter, in order to break free to live from his true Essence—which of course includes re-embracing me as his true feminine half.”
“Are you optimistic that somehow you can energetically reunite with him across time and space as a single Essence?”
“Yes, Professor, I grow increasing hopeful about our ultimate reunion the more I watch the Candidate’s progress on Earth.” The Monitor resumes her sitting posture on the stone slab and closes her eyes. Descending into a state of timelessness, she focuses her awareness into the future, sensing the Candidate typing at a computer early on a cold morning in Spiti Valley, earth date June 17, 2010.
She addresses the Professor while maintaining her connection to the future, “He is at this very moment well-attuned to my mind and, through the creative realm of his imagination, attempting to transcribe our current conversation in a book called The ‘I’ of the Storm.” She smiles with amusement as she opens her eyes. “He calls you the Professor and me, his Monitor.”
“But I’m not a—”
“Of course you’re not, but a professor is the closest thing his mind can conceive of you in his current reality. Actually, it’s a rather sweet and apt symbol for you—a kindly mentor in the stars who is guiding his path to higher learning.”
“I understand. And a Monitor, as he calls you, is an appropriate representation for the overseeing awareness that watches over his earthly journey, and whom he realizes is a long-forgotten, essential piece of his total self—his significant other with whom he yearns to reunite.”
“Yes, and in me he has also finally discovered the elusive Time Being whom he has been seeking the past years in his spiritual journey and through some book writing he entitled, Dream On to Freedom—tasks I have watched him undertake during my time travels these months in isolation. But he could not complete that book in his Mindgame to Remembrance because he had not yet found me.” The Time Being again closes her eyes to shift her awareness a bit further into the Earth future. “Good, I see that he soon finishes the Dream On to Freedom story, thereby opening his creative imagination to our reuniting as one.”
“Will you be able to join with his Essence at that opportune moment when he envisions a merging with you in the Dream On to Freedom finale?”
“I will try, but nothing is certain in the mix of perception, creative thought, and the resulting reality,” she replies while bringing their conversation to a close. “Just know that if I am not here when you next visit the Monitoring Chamber, then all is well—very well indeed for a Time Being and for an ‘I’ of the storm swirling on earth, two who have finally merged back into one Essence to journey together into new realms.”
“If so, my dear, then don’t forget to write.”

THE END
of
The ‘I’ of the Storm
A Mindgame through Time

return to table of contents
The Author and his Books

The author, after having been an active spiritual seeker, healer, and counselor for the past two decades, is generally a quiet nomad living in mountain solitude either in the Himalayas, Colorado Rockies, or Peruvian Andes. On the practical side, Nixall (nee Shupe) has seen many fleeting endeavors and roles pass through his life, ranging from being a Stanford basketball player, to an environmental engineer, to a lawyer, mediator, and finally, a water resource consultant described in 1989 by the L.A. Times as “one of the prominent forces for peaceful evolution in Western water policies.”
Nixall laid off his employees in that year for a one-year sabbatical which quickly became a decades-long reality shift filled with spirit guides, psychic encounters, and a path of discovery guided by amazing grace (and by a watchful Monitor?). While composing his spiritual autobiography in the year 2000 along the Ganges River, Nixall ran out of steam on the true story, so fashioned a plunge into amnesia to enhance the path of exploration, (as recounted in The Now or Never, a prequel to the Mindgame series of books to come).
Towards the end of the conjured amnesia process, the author realized that he was actually caught in a deeper, lifelong cycle of forgetfulness—one on the soul level wherein his spirit had fallen into earthly embodiment without any memory of where it had come from or why it is here.
Consequently, Nixall has spent the past decade playing an intensive Mindgame to Remembrance, an inner journey of discovery primarily involving Himalayan experiences and additional writing to jar loose clues and hidden secrets via creative imagination. The book, A Mindgame to Remembrance, charts his true adventures through northern India, juxtaposed with scenes from a humorous heaven which is struggling to guide its awkward creation, called Earth, to its ultimate destiny.
After grasping a purpose for earthly existence, Nixall explores alternative realms of existence, the nature of consciousness, and planetary upheaval in The ‘I’ of the Storm – A Mindgame through Time.
To complete the liberating path to full remembrance in Dream On to Freedom – A Mindgame Climax, Nixall attempts to merge with his higher mind. The process culminates in an imaginative heavenly realm where preparations are joyfully being made to welcome a new wave of spirits who—after a lifetime or more of being trapped in their false, human self-identities and forgetfulness on Earth—are eager to awaken to their true nature as pure consciousness.
Remember?


An Excerpt from:

Dream On to Freedom
A Mindgame Climax

- ONE -

Someday you will realize that you do not reside within the universe,
but that the known universe rests entirely within you.

HEAVEN: At the Seraph’s graduation party
“A grand party, my dear,” the Seraph of Desire warmly states to the Archangel of Duality. “Thanks for such a lovely sendoff.”
“Great food, too,” remarks Mother Theresa while licking sweet and sour sauce from a serving spoon. ”Nothing like a taste of duality to spice up festivities in heaven.”
“And on Earth,” the archangel adds. “Amazing, is it not, how the human ego’s addiction to its desires and to dual thinking keeps growing down there?”
“Sad but true,” the Seraph states on his way to the office exit. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and help with the next efforts to reawaken individuals to their true heritage of spirit?”
“No, my friend, go off sailing on the Ocean of Bliss with an open heart and clear conscience. The candidate files that you selected and graciously left with us will be excellent aids to our efforts.” The Seraph remains hesitant to desert his colleagues until the archangel gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and a hefty shove through the door amidst a chorus of farewells from the group.
Closing the door, the Archangel of Duality announces to the gathering, “As soon as we finish cleaning up from the party we can get down to the business at hand. The Seraph left us several files on earth individuals whose consciousnesses appear ready to transcend duality and come home to oneness—and we’ll start forming teams to assist them right away.”
A voice is heard from the back, “Are those the people who are finding peace amidst earthly chaos, and living contemplative lives?”
The Archangel of Duality, understanding earth-life well, laughs heartily and replies, “Dream on.”

EARTH: Early 21st Century, in northern India
“Damn it all,” you mutter dropping your backpack onto the dusty floor at the Tabo bus stand. You sit dejectedly on the pack, holding your head in your hands. After a moment, you look up at the bearer of bad tidings to ask, “So how long until the buses to Shimla start running again?”
The local official replies, “Hopefully by next June, if all goes well.”
“Ten months!” you exclaim in disbelief.
“Six major bridges were washed out by the flood and we can only hope for sufficient government aid.”
Knowing that this road is the sole lifeline connecting Spiti Valley with the rest of India, you ask the obvious question. “Is the highway open in the other direction to Manali over Kunzum Pass?”
The man sighs. “Landslides. But we expect to have it open again soon, at least for a few weeks before snow closes the pass for the season. We desperately need the Manali route to stock up on supplies for the difficult months ahead.”
Your self-pity comes to an abrupt halt. Thinking of these high-country people isolated during the long winter puts your current problem into perspective—at worst a few days stuck in Spiti while they clear rockslides from the road to civilization, albeit in the wrong direction. Or maybe, you suddenly wonder, is this a push from the Guiding Hand to nudge you on a walking trek over the 15,500-foot Pin Baba Pass to pick up the highway to Shimla beyond the flood damage—a chance to test the theory that all apparent roadblocks in life, no matter how disruptive, are actually part of a grand design to guide each person to one’s true destiny?
You thank the helpful official and hoist your backpack with a grunt. Making the most of this unexpected change in plans, you start by backtracking the path which you came down a mere half-hour ago. After ten minutes of scrambling up a rocky slope, you pause to gaze at the opening of a nearby cave and its familiar inhabitant—an elderly lama who is calmly rinsing his empty cooking pot.

Meanwhile, back in HEAVEN…
“Toss me a dishtowel, Genghis,” the Archangel of Duality requests as she turns from the washbasin and heads to the other side of the room. “I don’t want to get the candidate files wet.”
“Sure thing,” the Khan responds as he follows her to the richly carved desk. ”Nice that the Seraph of Desire let us use his penthouse suite while he blissfully cruises. He certainly looked ecstatic about returning to the fruits of oneness as he left the party.”
“If we succeed as planned, we’ll soon be seeing that same bright expression of liberation on many human faces, as well. The clutch of duality may be exciting and seductive to humanity,” she states while abruptly grabbing Genghis by his furry lapels and yanking him down to her face. “But the relief from being freed from my grasp is beyond measure, remember?” She laughs at the startled Khan, releasing him from her hold. “Be a dear and call the meeting to order.”
The archangel shuffles through some papers while Genghis shouts for attention. The noise level tapers off as the room’s heavenly occupants move closer to the desk to receive instructions from their organizer. Greeting the gathering with a quick nod, the archangel wastes no time in getting down to business. “First, I’d like to identify captains to help coordinate the efforts of each team.”
“Teams designed for what purpose?” someone queries.
“Designed to help awaken earth individuals to their true consciousness in a manner appropriate to their cultural backgrounds, spiritual beliefs, and states of mind.” She picks up a small stack of files from among the candidate folders and hands them to a handsome swami in the front row. “For example, I’m assigning the revered guru, Ramaghudwan, to spearhead assistance to those people on earth who, through ancient yogic techniques, have pierced through the illusion of the physical realm and are thereby ripe for reclaiming their oneness with spirit.”
“An honor to serve the cause, madam,” Ramaghudwan states humbly while accepting the candidate files.
The archangel retrieves another handful of folders to give to Magdalena the Christ. “You, my dear, will lead the team to assist those candidates who have unabashedly embraced both their brilliant light and their darkest shadow, thus bringing them into a balance beyond the shackles of dual thinking.”
“My pleasure to assist,” Magdalena states while turning to share the folders with her significant other.
As Duality reaches for a third set of candidate files, she asks, “Is the seventeenth-century Japanese Zen master, Sakitumi, still here?”
An elderly monk wearing a black robe embroidered with rowan tree and a single flying martin emerges from the group, bowing to Duality. The archangel hands him the folders and states, “You will kindly coordinate the team to assist those individuals on Earth who have reached a point of emptiness, those who have tasted their nothingness and are thereby ripe to merge with the All.”
The frail man responds in barely a whisper, “In the tradition of emptiness, I am honored to serve.” He indicates the symbols on his robe while adding, “My lineage is as deeply rooted as the rowan tree yet acts swiftly as the martin.” To emphasize his point, in one smooth, lightening-quick motion he pulls a Zen stick from his sleeve and crisply whacks Duality on the side of the head.
“Sakitumi?” the puzzled archangel responds in search of explanation for this unexpected action.
The enigmatic master bows respectfully and replies, “Precisely.”

Back on EARTH above Tabo
“Very interesting,” Lamaji states upon seeing you approach his cave. “Are you a ghostly afterimage of the man I recently said goodbye to or just a wandering fellow who missed his bus? It’s getting harder for me to distinguish such nuances of reality these days,” the genial sage adds with a smile.
“I think I’m the real man but maybe you can help me sort out what that actually means.” You follow him into the cave and awkwardly fold your legs into a sitting position in the dirt. “I was hoping to get some clarification of your parting comments about my identifying who’s on first and finding the mysterious Time Being.”
The lama stashes his eating utensils in a niche as he responds, “Riddles can prove enlightening, but only when one discovers his own answers. Plus, all I was suggesting to you is the same basic advice that has been given for ages: Know thyself.”
“That simple, huh?”
“Both simple and complex. Simple because everything that you are already resides within you. There is nothing to find, nothing you have to become, nothing to gain. Just discard the false layers, the lifetime of faulty conditioning about yourself and you will discover the totality of your true being that has been lying within all the while.”
“So all my searching for insights and truth is futile?”
“All good intentions serve but as I like to remind myself: The spiritual seeker, if diligent, invariably becomes a spiritual loser.”
“I can relate,” you state wistfully, thinking of the past years of a spiritual search that has left you wandering through this foreign landscape with no home, no career, and little if any certainty about a future.
Silence prevails until Lamaji continues with his explanation. “The complexity of the task arises from the fact that when you truly know yourself, you also grasp the entirety of existence.”
“How so?”
The wise elder answers while looking directly into your eyes, “Because someday you will realize that you do not reside within the universe, but that the known universe rests entirely within you.”
You open your mouth to object but are stopped short by a sudden feeling that somehow, truth lies in the lama’s statement. You give him a weak smile and mumble more to yourself than to him, “I think I’m having a Twilight Zone moment.”

In HEAVEN at the Penthouse
“Rod. Rod Serling?” The Archangel of Duality looks at the group and inquires, “Has anyone seen Mr. Serling?”
A voice answers, “He left an hour ago to view the Outer Limits.”
“Rats,” says Duality while reaching for the final set of files that she has been distributing to various team leaders, “I wanted Mr. Serling to captain the team that will handle the Westerners who have reached the twilight of their known self and world.”
A short man with bushy white hair raises his hand and states in heavy Swiss accent, “I’d be happy to give him the files at our team meeting. I’m eager to read about the Western candidates and check their science backgrounds.”
“Thank you, Albert. You’ll certainly be a key player to help them transcend false conditioning about time, space, matter, and the basic structure of the universe,” notes Duality as she hands him the candidate files.
“Hey, Dr. Einstein,” Ghengis calls out jokingly, “how many columns does it take to hold up the earth anyway?”
“Actually, a humongous turtle supports our world,” Albert quips back, “but it’s hiding in the fifth dimension of the space-time continuum.”
A bovine bleating draws the group’s attention to the rear of the room. White Buffalo Calf Woman calms her albino bison and explains, “The little guy wants me to remind you that the entire universe rests in the mind of the Great Turtle, not on its back.”
“Wrong,” Professor Jung interjects, “the world is merely a dream of the collective consciousness.”
“Nonsense, it’s an illusion of our limited perceptions,” argues Sakitumi.
“Nay, fool, it be but a play that resideth in the eye of the beholder,” sayeth the great Bard.
“Absurd,” counters Ramaghudwan, “the universe is pure emptiness, the Absolute that transcends mind.”
“Poppycock, it’s an experiential metaphor to give consciousness a feast of flavors at the banquet of life,” professes Genghis.
Mother Theresa squares off in front of the Khan, “Wanna eat those words, pal.”
“Settle down, everyone!” the Archangel of Duality shouts above the growing clamor. She pauses a moment to let quiet and calm descend upon the office then whispers to the Buddha, “Perhaps I am the wrong one to be chairing this meeting. When led by Duality, folks get a bit testy as their views of reality are challenged, do they not?”

A bit later in the cave on EARTH
“That’s an irrelevant example, Lamaji, which explains nothing,” you assert with growing agitation.
The patient elder states, “You needn’t raise your voice in this cave to be heard, my friend.”
“Oh, sorry,” you respond sheepishly, a few decibels lower. “But I just don’t see how a quantum physics view of electrons is supposed to demonstrate that the entire universe is within me.”
“Simply try to grasp that your power of perception is not only at the center of your world, but that your perceptions form the outer limits of the known universe as well.” In response to your continuing mental block, Lamaji pulls you to your feet and leads you to the cave mouth. The two of you gaze down at the village of Tabo where colorful prayer flags flutter in the morning breeze. The old monk points to the temple complex and states, “I once saw a full, brilliant rainbow whose arch appeared to end directly at the monastery gate. Do you understand the conditions needed to see a rainbow?”
“Sure,” you reply. “The sun must be shining from low behind me, with a bit of rain or mist in front.”
Lamaji nods. “Now picture that rainbow which ended at the gate, about a half kilometer away. What would have happened if I had shouted to my brother monk at the monastery to look at the beautiful rainbow lying between us by the gate—assuming of course he could hear my voice? Would he have seen it?”
“Of course not. He would simply be looking into the sun and mist thinking you had gone a bit silly.”
“Correct. But if he then turns around with his back to the sun, he would see a rainbow lying about a half kilometer further beyond his position at the monastery.”
“Two people seeing two rainbows in two locations,” you state to demonstrate you catch the lama’s drift.
“And if you had been looking out the cave one hundred paces to my left, you would have seen another rainbow in a third location, ending about a hundred paces to the left of the monastery gate.” The monk queries, “So what was actually out there?”
You ponder a minute and reply, “Rain and sunlight creating the conditions for rainbows to appear at spots relative to the observers.”
“Well put. So three observers, three rainbows. And no observer…”
“No rainbow,” you conclude, “even though the rain and sunshine together create a potential field from which countless rainbows could emerge.”
“Right, if countless eyes were observing.” The monk returns to a sitting position. “Think now, where is the rainbow actually located that you see?”
“About a half kilometer from—”
He cuts you off with a raise of his hand. “Think carefully.”
Thoughtful silence is followed by your sudden exclamation of clarity and surprise, “I get it, Lamaji. Only raindrops and sunlight are present in the sky. The rainbow takes form solely in my mind.”
“Indeed. sunrays may be out there in space being refracted by raindrops, but their energy waves only becomes a colorful rainbow in your perceptions.” The old monk continues with his explication, “Finally, consider that not just beautiful rainbows, but your entire known world takes subjective form in the eye of the beholder—since modern physics and ancient text both tells us that nothing but energy waves exist ‘out there’. Kind of shatters your old view of there being only one solid, real world out there if you think about it long enough.”

In HEAVEN
The crash of breaking glass interrupts the discussion as all heads turn to see a man in white shirt and skinny tie flying through the penthouse window. “Rod, I wish you’d learn to use the door one of these days,” complains Mother Theresa.
“Sorry,” Mr. Serling responds with a boyish grin. “Old habits die hard when hurtling through new dimensions of time and space.”
“How were the Outer Limits, Rod?”
“Kind of second rate, plus I had a hard time controlling reception. At least, however, I was able to monitor your conversations from there, so I’m up to speed on this team effort stuff.” Mr. Serling puts down a large travel trunk and continues, “I even brought back some nifty space suits and alien masks for us to wear when contacting modern earthlings to help them awaken to the deeper realities.”
Amused glances are exchanged throughout the room followed by an awkward silence. Buddha finally responds, “Uh, that’s great Rod. And when we break into smaller groups, your team can discuss strategies for how best to approach communication with the, uh, earthlings in your jurisdiction. But space-alien visitations might not always be the appropriate strategy to promote a person’s spiritual awakening.”
“Rod does make a good point, though,” Magdalena remarks while leaning back in her chair at the office’s large table. “Compared to the rest of the world, candidates from Western cultures will be least apt to embrace our direct contact and assistance—and we’ll need to get innovative to reach them.”
White Buffalo Calf Woman adds in agreement, “My team will have an easier task working with indigenous cultures since visitations by spirit guides, vision quest messages, and other forms of other-worldly communications are commonly accepted there.”
“My team, too,” observes Ramaghudwan. “In south Asia, we’ll be able to appear as familiar local deities and communicate directly with people consistent with their cultural norms.”
Mr. Serling interjects enthusiastically, “That’s exactly why I brought the alien disguises to wear, to make candidates from Western societies feel comfortable when we a contact them.”
Dr. Einstein puts a placating hand on Rod’s shoulder. “I’ve scanned their files and I’m afraid that a friendly E.T. visitation will succeed with very few candidates who are ready to transcend their known self and world. With a few others, our manifesting as angelic heralds may also work for direct communication. But for the vast majority of Western candidates we’ll have to find less dramatic ways of entering their awareness.”
“Dreams,” Professor Jung states matter-of-factly. “We’ll communicate with them through dreams, although there’s the problem of people often not remembering the dreamtime messages.”
Magdalena glances through the folders as she states, “Also, some Western candidates appear capable of channeling, guided writing, and other telepathic communication with us. But for most, we’ll have to rely on that universal tool that has for ages supported delving into the human psyche.”
“Commercial advertising?”
“No, Mr. Serling. Imagination.”

On EARTH
“I still can’t picture how this rainbow thing relates to what the quantum physicists are saying about electrons,” you admit with frustration.
“Because they tell us that a field of potential electrons lies outside the nucleus of an atom—much as a field of potential rainbows exists in the proper rain-sun conditions—but no actual electron exists until it is observed or detected, just like the illusory rainbow.” The old sage adds, “Or so say articles in my science magazine subscription.”
“Pretty metaphysical sounding,” you remark, “but such is the nature of the subatomic world, from what I gather.”
“Again, don’t limit the remarkable to just atoms and rainbows. Science and sages tell us that the entire universe is one big unified field of energy that we only perceive as having substance, linear time, and three-dimensional space—false concepts that Einstein and other great thinkers blew apart long ago. If one could only break free of the human mind’s limited perceptions, science says we could experience a multidimensional curved space-time continuum where our thoughts influence the nature of light, and where the energy of matter and anti-matter dance in and out of existence in a twinkling of an eye.”
“No doubt fascinating,” you respond, “but for now, I’d be satisfied to simply journey beyond the confines of Spiti Valley. A half-dozen bridges are washed out on the highway to Shimla.”
The lama states helpfully, “Well, the roadway west over Kunzum Pass is usually open through September, unless rockslides or early snows have shut it down.”
“Actually, I’ve decided to hike out, trekking over the Pin Baba Pass trail that will eventually connect me up with the route to Shimla beyond the flood damage. Forty miles of wilderness hiking over a fifteen-thousand-foot pass sounds less daunting than a long, jolting India bus ride over an iffy road in the wrong direction. Plus, maybe some surprises await a spiritual lone-walker in the rarified air ahead,” you conclude with a smile.
“Sounds invigorating and a trifle incautious. I do hope you take a tent since snowfall in late August is not uncommon at the elevations you’ll encounter.”
“Not to worry. I’ll pick up a tent at the Kaza market today in time to catch the local bus into the Pin Valley region this late afternoon. Then it’s off on foot into the wild blue beyonder.”
“Be sure to pack plenty of food for that hungry ghost of your ego,” suggests the kindly lama. He then presses his right index finger to the middle of your forehead. “And carry lots of creativity and imagination to explore the depths of your true consciousness.”

Back in HEAVEN
“Why the furrowed brow?” queries Jesus the Christ.
Mr. Serling scratches his head and replies, “I just don’t see how we can tap the imagination of people on Earth without having a syndicated television series to open their minds to alternative realities.”
From across the table, Professor Jung explains, “It’s quite easy, really. When people are daydreaming, creatively writing, or otherwise involved in imaginative thinking, we enter the picture with our higher consciousness and interact with their thoughts. The person simply considers it all a part of his or her imagination and goes with the flow.”
The Buddha chimes in, “Of course, the tone of the conversation and the visual setting is dictated by the particular mind and reality of the candidate with whom we are working. But within the framework of their imagination, our higher consciousness can interject the messages, insights, and food for thought to help them expand their thinking.”
“Such use of human intuition and imagination have been applied throughout history to bring higher consciousness to light on earth,” observes Dr. Einstein, “such as planting the seeds of the Relativity Theory into a young Swiss clerk’s mind to advance scientific progress, or helping to stimulate ideas for popular science fiction scripts that open people to alternative realities.”
Master Sakitumi explains to Mr. Serling, “We’ll just be applying the technique now in a more focused way to help candidates awaken to the fullness of their true selves.”
Buddha looks out the penthouse window at the earthly setting below. “The Archangel of Duality demonstrated the approach quite effectively when she contacted individuals down there last month. The dialogues and forms in which she appeared to people in their imaginations proved quite interesting and varied, depending upon the individual’s cultural conditioning and mindset. In their intuitive eyes, people perceived the archangel as everything from the Antichrist to a Buddhist goddess of compassion, and from Sharon Stone to Bugs Bunny.”
“Bugs Bunny?”
Magdalena the Christ looks up from reviewing files with a serious expression, “Yes. A distressingly high percentage of North American candidates currently reside in mental institutions or have lost themselves in some fantasyland. Mainstream Western culture simply provides no context, let alone support, for a person’s true spiritual awakening beyond the known self and world.”
Professor Jung expounds, “For example, important psychic insights, both visually and verbally perceived by a spiritually-evolved person, are typically deemed mere hallucinations by psychiatric experts.”
“Plus the crucial stage of emptiness is commonly diagnosed and treated as depression,” adds Sakitumi, “thereby robbing a person of the opportunity to let go of their empty existence to experience full liberation into the bliss beyond.”
“And even those Western candidates who escape their limited cultural landscape often end up lost in some foreign setting wondering what in blazes they’re doing in Amazon tree house or Himalayan high country.”
Mr. Serling resolutely pushes back from the table and grabs his costume bag. “Then it’s time we quit chatting among ourselves and start making some door-to-door house calls. Where is that Avon man?”
“Right here, good sire.”
“Is the stage set?”
“All the world,” Mr. Shakespeare confirms, “with its players at their marks.”
*******

Nixall books available at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Nixall:

A MINDGAME TO REMEMBRANCE
Awakening to Spirit’s Purpose
THE ‘I’ OF THE STORM
A Mindgame through Time
DREAM ON TO FREEDOM
A Mindgame Climax
THE MINDGAME TRILOGY
Spiritual Awakening, Soulful Remembrance, and an Elusive Time Being
THE NOW OR NEVER
Amnesia for Fun and Prophet – A Mindgame Prequel

Comment to the author via:  nixall999@gmail.com

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