Fallen Masters (60 page)

The Vatican science team reported to him twice daily, but the rapidity of developments caused him to call them more often than that—and to come out tonight to see for himself what data they were monitoring.

As he stepped into the room where several priest-scientists were working, one of them immediately said, “Holy Father, you have to look at this!”

Houston

At the same time, Jason Chang, on twenty-four-hour duty at NASA in Houston, suddenly sat up straight at his monitor. As he did so, his arm caught the cup of cold coffee that sat next to his keyboard and spilled the cream-laden liquid across his desk.

Cursing, he jumped to his feet. Two assistants came running with paper towels and sopped up the coffee, which miraculously had not spilled onto the keyboard or any other electronic component. Then he sat down again and stared at the data that moved across the screen in front of him.

He couldn’t believe what he saw!

Dr. Chang picked up the phone and called a colleague in Greenwich, England, with whom he generally spoke three or four times a day since the discovery of the creeping dark matter.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” he asked.

“Sure thing,” confirmed Alan Sanders, one of the most competent astronomers on the planet. “Pandora’s Cluster has shifted, and there is a sudden and substantial change in the composition and location of the dark matter.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Take a look at your satellite imaging.”

Within seconds, pictures from United States and international satellites flashed across Jason’s monitor. He punched a few keys and sent the images to the larger screens in the data room outside his office. The technicians there all looked up at the images that were now appearing on high-def monitors all around them. He could hear a collective gasp from the room.

Clusters of light emanated upward from every city on Earth, and smaller twinkles—still quite visible—from less populated, more rural areas. Nearly the entire expanse of the United States was lit up, and the same with China and India, which meant that vast numbers of people in those countries were signaling the heavens.

“What the heck—?”

“It’s the Academy Awards, boss,” one of the senior techs called out to him. At her station, the woman had been streaming the ceremony and the speech by the President’s son. “You should watch it.”

No longer surprised by such a bizarre suggestion, Jason Chang returned to his own computer and clicked onto the broadcast feed of the Oscars to see what the heck she was talking about.…

*   *   *

As events unfolded on Earth, both the Tribunal and the Council of Elders gathered around the many pools of consciousness on the other side of the veil to take in and reflect on the cosmic shift that was transpiring before them.

The Fallen Masters had already been dispatched and were directing other Earth guides in action.

POTUS, whose astral eyes had been opened to IRA’s manipulation and the Governor’s genuine goodness, stood with the others of the Council by the pools, remembering his ugly experience there of the destructive energies that the forces of the Tribunal had hoped to marshal to their ends … No, it wasn’t going to happen that way.

With a swiftness that surprised him, POTUS was able to receive from the Governor his portfolio of power and his mission and moved like lightning from the heavenly realm to the earthly plane. He felt as if he were being sucked into the engine of a huge jet aircraft, the kind that had transported troops during his days in the army. But there was no thought of combat or conquest—only justice.

The loudest
crash
and
crack
imaginable—even beyond imagination—was then heard, as if two planets had collided and released the energy of tens of thousands of nuclear weapons in the explosion.

*   *   *

The vibration and crash felt on the Earth plane were, for the people in the Hollywood Grand Theatre, not unlike earthquakes they had experienced before, but with a difference: The physical jolt was less than the emotional and spiritual impact on each person present.

One by one, the people who had been led there that evening by their Fallen Masters—whether they knew it or not—saw their guides materialize on the stage behind Marcus Jackson.

Marcus himself turned and saw his father smiling at him, his arms outstretched, and standing behind his father were other relatives who had passed to the Other Side when Marcus was much smaller. They were silent at this moment, but manifestly present not only in the space POTUS occupied but in the boy’s heart and mind as well.

Charlene knew that the Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe, who had entered her consciousness in Mexico, had even before Mexico been very much alive and walking closely with her on her journey. Now, in Charlene’s eyes, the entire theater was bathed in the light of the Virgin.

From the audience, Tyler now distinctly saw the figure that had been only a shadow to him and whose purpose had been only dimly perceived—even though it had brought him here to this particular place at this specific time: Emanuel Swedenborg, the philosopher and scientist who had glimpsed the purpose of God in his lifetime. He had never seen a portrait of the man, but he knew without a doubt who it was. Tyler’s mind was illuminated, and he smiled genuinely and without irony for the very first time since Karen’s death. And, there she stood, as well, holding up the baby’s hand in a wave that only he could see.

Dawson felt a tap on his shoulder, a firm, physical sensation that caused him to turn and let go of Charlene’s hand.
I didn’t know I had been holding her hand,
he thought, partly embarrassed and partly elated.

The words did not come from C. S. Lewis’s mouth but were as clear in Dawson’s mind as the tap of a hammer upon a nail:
“You see, this is the church of the world. You do not have to travel far to be in the presence of God, nor do you have to be a believer. He believes in you. He will find you. He will seek you out and protect you from those who would see you in Hell.”

POTUS, having crossed over definitively and feeling his feet on the stage behind his son, scanned the faces in the audience and the production crew behind the stage. There—he knew it!—was IRA, watching the scene unfold and standing with a figure that appeared to POTUS as a distinguished statuesque person of undetermined sex. As he watched, the figure assumed various aspects, and he realized it was a kind of angelic being, albeit one with evil intent.

In return, Angel Emphatic, who was boiling with anger, met the gaze of the President. IRA looked from one to the other, fear and disgust scoring his face, an ageless face of deceit, a blank slate upon which darkness could write with a cold hand. IRA disappeared from the scene, transporting himself back to the Other Side, where he released yet another wrathful scream from the core of his being, a visceral attack of energy that expressed the betrayal he felt at POTUS’s turn. The One greeted him there, then wordlessly banished him to a lower level of existence as punishment for his failure. No further sound came from IRA, nor would it for all eternity.

*   *   *

Blue butterflies—by the thousands and tens of thousands—filled the stage, then the entire theater within a matter of seconds. Television viewers around the world saw their screens filled with wings of many hues and heard an unearthly sound caused by the beating of so many wings. It was musical, but not quite music as most people understood it, an eerie yet soothing chorus that flowed and flickered, keeping time with the myriad wings and the movement of the beautiful creatures in every direction before their eyes.

Marcus Jackson stood center stage, his arms uplifted and his face full of wonder. Having fulfilled his mission, the young man felt the immense relief of someone who had just completed a difficult race and crossed the finish line sapped of every ounce of energy he possessed. He breathed in the fragrance of the butterflies as they moved through the air in the theater and captured the attention of everyone present.

Apart from the strange sound generated by the butterflies, there was dead silence.

During their lives on the temporal, earthly plane, the Fallen Masters who stood now by their earthly subjects—Marcus, Charlene, Dawson, and Tyler—had not known or interacted with one another, but in this time and place they were together in common cause, just as those they had guided stood to witness and participate in this world-altering event.

Dawson, in particular, saw the significance of the spirit guides assembled near the President’s son, alongside Charlene and the others—seemingly unrelated and chosen at random by unseen forces—who had been drawn, or transported here for a purpose.

Why me?
he wondered, not for the first time.

Perhaps there was no answer to the
why
question … Maybe there was only the
this is
answer to any and all questions tonight. It would certainly be something for Dawson Rask to write about—and for Charlene St. John to sing about for many months and years to come, In fact, the words and music of a new song had already begun to form in her mind and on her lips.

Just as Dawson was looking at her with deep love in his eyes, Charlene turned to look at him, though his image was blurred by the tears that welled up there—tears of great joy and understanding. She then walked out onto the stage and cued the music to resume for her interrupted song. Standing next to Marcus, her arm entwined with his, she sang like she had never sung before in her life.

Rae Loona looked up at Dawson and could sense the wheels turning in the writer’s brain. She now realized that she had been gifted for her entire life with a special sensitivity to others’ thoughts and needs. It was part of her genetic makeup. The two were natural healers and bridge-builders in a world that so desperately needed such skills, and now more than ever after the cosmic rift they had just experienced.

Her Mikey would never be the same after this. She knew that much. And for that matter, neither would she … Something had been revealed to Rae—something deep and mysterious and entirely magical—and she was super-excited to find out how it would unfold in her life. She said a silent prayer of thanks.

Bob Anderson felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders.
It’s over,
he thought, and then:
No, this is just a beginning. The world has been preserved—that is, the
good
in the world has been saved, at least for now. And it is up to the rest of us to make the choices that will keep hope and light and good alive.

New York

Dave Hampton watched the unfolding events on a studio monitor in New York, just as billions of people around the world watched on TV screens, on their handhelds, and on computers and tablets—everywhere on Earth. Only the most impossibly remote tribesmen or purposefully tuned-out human beings were unaware of the message that had been so powerfully delivered and the victory that had been achieved.

Patricia Rose Greenidge, known throughout the world as Mama G, was dead. She had been killed, along with seventy others, in the strange crash of Intercontinental Airways flight 1331 in Nevada. She had flown from Grenada to Miami, and from there was on her way to Los Angeles.

Mama G had once told Dave that she was terrified of flying. It must have taken every ounce of courage she had for her to get on that plane—two planes, really—to fly out to Los Angeles. He could guess (and he would investigate in coming days to confirm his hunch) that she had played a part in the Marcus Jackson Jr. scenario, somehow influenced what had happened there on the Academy Awards stage that sparked a new consciousness in the world and somehow—no one yet knew exactly how or to what extent—averted a cosmic disaster for everyone on Earth.

This was potentially the biggest story he had ever covered, and now he was obsessed with it.

The famous broadcaster wrote out a few notes but did not feel like speaking at this moment. The images from the stage of the Hollywood Grand Theatre spoke for themselves and needed no embellishment or explanation from his silver tongue—or anyone else’s. There would be time enough for that.

Why do I feel so satisfied and happy?
Dave wondered. It was as if he had just partaken in a particularly fine meal with his very best friends, and he was savoring every bite. Yet it was more—so much more—infinitely more—than that.

It was beyond the realm of the senses.

*   *   *

Then Angel Emphatic, the defeated eternal avatar of the dark energies, rose as a shadow to enshroud the stage of the Hollywood Grand Theatre and everyone on it. Marcus and the others felt a stabbing chill as the shadow fell upon them. Angel Emphatic gathered power from every source he had ever tapped throughout the ages to express his rage in a dark manifestation and with a soundless scream that tore through the idyllic vision of the shining blue butterflies. But then he was gone. Though most people were unaware of his presence or even who he was, at least for now.…

CHAPTER

107

Charlene drank in the applause after she finished her song. She wasn’t going to but the receding negative vibes that washed over them all were so strong that she felt that all needed something to bring them back to the feeling that they had but moments ago. The audience in the theater gave her a standing ovation. They all knew something extraordinary had just happened, but they wouldn’t know the extent of the drama on a cosmic level until much later. The last thing on her mind now was the actual awards ceremony or whether her song would win in its category. She was humbled—and exhausted.

After her performance, Marcus was escorted by the security team back to the trailer that had served as his green room. The others in his new “entourage” came along, as well: Charlene, Dawson, Tyler, and Bobby Anderson, who was responsible now for his safety.

The Fallen Masters were present, too, though not yet completely visible. They were veiled in a way that would not overwhelm the intimacy of this moment. Each guide was connected mentally and spiritually with each earthly subject. The bonds had become irrevocable and unbreakable.