Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (8 page)

Once inside, Keri felt safe. Her family was together and Ryan was off for a couple of days. Hopefully it would be enough time for her to regain her faith in the fact that everything would be alright. Maybe she had overreacted.

Before leaving the foyer, she pushed against the front door, ensuring it was closed, and engaged the bolt lock. Pausing briefly, she reflected on the framed, cross-stitched needlework that hung by the door in the foyer. Behind the glass was a late afternoon beach scene; the sun three-quarters below the horizon and the silhouette of a bird in flight headed toward the setting sun. Two empty Adirondack chairs, side by side, faced the ocean. Three phrases were stitched into the fabric:

One below the horizon:

LEARN FROM THE PAST

One on the horizon next to the sliver of orange sun:

EMBRACE THE PRESENT

The third above the horizon:

HOPE IN THE FUTURE

The needlework was a wedding gift from Ryan’s mom. It was one of her many marvelous pieces. It had hung in the small foyer of her own home in Atlanta before her Alzheimer’s disease had forced her to move to Dallas where Ryan could care for her. She had often said that the needlework was a reminder to her before facing the challenges of the outside world. The simple illustration always reminded Keri of Martha Mitchell’s optimistic and hopeful outlook on life.

The message in the stitching, combined with thoughts of Martha’s strong faith, brought a tear to Keri’s eye. Martha was in Heaven now. Keri wanted to believe that Martha was looking down at them saying: “
Everything
is
gonna
be
fine
.”

CHAPTER 7

Samael darted from the lobby of the Hotel Daphnis to a waiting taxi. As he entered the back seat, the driver turned and flinched. Samael ignored the man’s rude behavior and said, “The Pierre Loti Café.”

The driver made quick time, arriving at the café within twenty minutes. Samael paid the man, exited the taxi, pulled his hood over his head, and hurried through the café to the terrace, ignoring the gawking patrons. He expected his height and massive size to draw attention, but the curse of his whiteness made it impossible to escape the incessant stares and whispers of onlookers.

The tree-shaded terrace café sat high up on a hill, centrally located within Old Stamboul. The popular café offered a splendid view of the Istanbul skyline, the Golden Horn River, and the Bosphorus Strait in the distance, stretching from Kagithane (the working class district of the city) to the Marmara Sea.

Named after the famous, French novelist and naval officer, Pierre Loti, the cozy atmosphere and authentic 19th century style furnishings were reminiscent of a more relaxed time in Istanbul’s history; a time when the Golden Horn was rich with tulip gardens and green parks, where upscale people came to relax and row their boats under romantic sunsets.

With waiters still serving in period costumes, the café provided the perfect place for escape and reflection. Although he had never met Usman Ali, pictures from his website, along with the description Usman provided made it easy to spot the little man.

Samael quickly crossed the patio to a table Usman had secured beneath the trees with an amazing view of the Golden Horn River; something Samael had requested.

Usman rose to greet him. “Good to see you my brother,” Samael said.

“The pleasure is mine.”

When they embraced, Samael was careful not to crush the bony, skeleton-like body beneath the man’s tunic. Considering the fragility of the pitiful specimen, Samael found the curse of his white skin not so disgusting.

Shadowed beneath his towering six-nine frame, Samael eyed the little man up and down. His head was covered with a kufi (a short, rounded cap). His black beard added an unnatural thickness to his narrow face, and a mustache encircled his full lips. He wore thick glasses with dark rims and a white thobe hung loosely from his shoulders. The legs on his baggy pants stopped just above his ankles exposing his sandal-covered feet. The little man appeared nervous and jerky reminding Samael of a Chihuahua puppy needing to pee.

“I’ve eagerly waited for this day,” Usman said. He motioned for Samael to sit.

“Yes, me too.”

Samael turned toward the Golden Horn River. “Look at her. Isn’t she beautiful?”

Usman adjusted his chair for a better view of the river, Seraglio Point, and Topkapi Palace. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

Samael closed his eyes, breathed in deep, then slowly exhaled. When he opened his eyes, a smile spread across his ashen-colored face. A relaxed satisfaction filled his soul.

This
time
,
I
will
not
fail
.

“As I have told you, I believe it is my destiny to help you,” Usman said. “Everything you have in mind, technically, is well within my capabilities. I have prepared a list of what we will need to purchase once we arrive in the United States. Are there any financial limitations?”

“The finances have been arranged,” Samael said. “I want the best equipment.”

“Wonderful.”

“This mission is my purpose in this life, and now that you have agreed to assist me, your technical skills will be invaluable to our success.”

“When will I know the location of the target?”

“Once we arrive in San Francisco, I’ll take you there.”

A waiter, dressed in a 19th century period costume, approached the table. “May I….” At his first glimpse of Samael’s face, the boy recoiled, releasing a faint gasp.

“Two black coffees,” Samael said.

“Right away, sir.” The boy scurried away.

Within ten minutes, he returned with two coffees in glass mugs. A head of froth crested the rim of each glass. “Will there be anything else?”

“No,” Samael said. The waiter hurried away.

“How did you finally decide on the date for this mission?”

Samael hesitated, focused on watching the grounds of the coffee settle to the bottom of his glass. He took a small sip. Hot, strong, intense, yet sweet and pleasing to his tongue.

“We both know the significance of May 29, 1453.”

Usman nodded. “The day commemorates the conquest of Constantinople by the Muslim Turks—specifically Mehmet the Conqueror. It is a day that will live in infamy.”

“I felt it would be fitting for Sultan Mehmet and me to share in the celebration on May 29th. You might not be aware, but May 29th is also the day my soul took residence in the albino body—the day I was born. Could there be a more perfect day?”

“No.” The little man squirmed with excitement. Without lifting his glass off the table, he leaned over and sipped his coffee. When he lifted his head, Samael noticed a foamy froth trapped in the frail man’s mustache. His eyes were hidden behind fogged lenses.

“Your PLR program not only freed me from my prison by opening the door to my hidden past, with practice, using your meditation and self-hypnosis techniques, I have learned how to command myself into other lifetimes, at will.” Samael wrapped his hands around his mug of coffee, relaxed by the heat radiating from the glass. He leaned back in his chair.

“I can’t tell you how rewarding it is when one of my clients progresses to the level of independence that you have. Most of my work is with those who are merely curious.”

Samael was obsessed with learning all he could about his newly found non-physical reality. The journeys of his soul had interconnected him with the realities of the universe and the afterlife. He was like a child who had been given a lifetime pass to Disney World; a fictionalized version of a perfect world where visitors are invited to escape their containment in physical reality so they are no longer limited by time, distance, size and physical laws; a place that offers the fictionalized realization of humanity’s deepest dream: transcendence.

He had more questions for Usman. “Is it possible for a soul to choose when and where it wants to go on Earth before making a decision as to who it will be in their new life?”

“Most definitely,” Usman said. “I’ve been told by clients undergoing hypnotherapy, that their souls, while in the spirit world, see themselves in the future playing different roles in various settings, previewing the life span of more than one human being within the same time cycle. In most cases, souls will quickly recognize one leading candidate for occupation.” He eased back from the table. “However, our spiritual advisors give us ample opportunity to reflect upon all we have seen in the future before making a final decision.”

Samael nodded. “Keep going.”

Usman continued, “While still in the spirit world, after a decision is made, souls enter into a significant period of preparation, much like cramming for a final exam. Then, just prior to embarkation, souls go before the Council of Elders where the significance of a soul's goals for the next life are reinforced. Embarkation to Earth is much like battle-hardened veterans girding themselves for combat. It is the last time the souls are able to enjoy the omniscience of knowing who they are before they must adapt to a new body.”

“Are you saying my soul chose this hideous, white body?”

“Yes, just as my soul chose this.” Usman gestured with both hands towards himself as he glanced down at his frail body. “The purpose of the human experience has everything to do with the growth of the soul—nothing else. We start as beginner souls and progress to intermediate and advanced souls, ending our incarnations on Earth when we reach full maturity.”

“How do we know what level of maturity we have reached?”

“Beginner souls are influenced by an Earth curriculum and are inclined to surrender their will to the controlling aspects of human society. Intermediate souls are ready for more serious responsibilities and are seeking spiritual wholeness. Advanced souls are rare. They typically have no need to seek out Soul Regression Therapy. These souls go about doing their work quietly, always focused. An example of an advanced soul would be Mother Teresa.”

“How long does it take to progress through the levels of maturity?”

“It’s not about time; it’s about purpose and growth. Once you satisfy the purpose of your soul’s incarnation, you will leave your physical body and journey home to your nonphysical place of reality. If, however, your earthly life is cut short and you leave behind any unresolved issues, after a period of rejuvenation and assessment, the soul will be required to leave the sanctuary of the Spirit World and return to Earth.”

“When I leave this place, I hope I never return.”

“Your present feelings of apprehension and fear only exist because you are bound by time and space. The soul does not experience such fears. Fear is of the personality, and therefore, of space and time. Trust me, once you no longer exist in dualism, your senses of sorrow, hate, and fear will evaporate.”

“My sorrow and hate will only evaporate when I have fulfilled my purpose.”

“I believe what drives you now, is the same thing that has driven your soul for thousands of years. The subconscious mind is a storehouse of all of our experiences and thoughts from all of our incarnations. Nothing is forgotten or lost by the subconscious. It often takes multiple lives to complete our purpose. This is why it is possible for a person to accomplish such great things at such a young age. I’m sure you have heard the term
old
soul
.”

“Yes. That explains why my past lives appear to have a common, life purpose.”

“Exactly.”

Samael sipped his, now, lukewarm coffee. From the teahouse on the hilltop, he gazed into the darkness toward the Golden Horn. The path of the river was easily distinguishable as it carved its way through the city lights of Istanbul to the Bosphorus.

He followed the lights of cars along the shoreline drive and across the Galata Bridge. Tiny lights bobbed on the surface of the black river below, marking the location of boats. Twinkling red, amber, and white lights carpeted the once barren hillside rising from the river’s bank.

Where there were lights, there were people—a city crammed with millions of people—all caged for the night, performing their nightly rituals of trivial tasks, like animals fighting to satisfy the cravings of their flesh: food, sex, drugs, and sleep; brains and bodies rotting from their nightly gorging of countless hours of television propaganda and junk food—a progressive atrophy of freedom, health, and independence of thought.

At sunrise, the hopelessly lost souls would once again return to their pathetic jobs like hamsters spinning mindlessly on wheels going nowhere. Life without purpose was the ultimate example of a cold, void, useless reality.

If it were not for his purpose, he would hurl the wretched body that enslaved him over the cliff and to its demise, returning his soul to the Spirit World for much needed rejuvenation.

CHAPTER 8

Samael took a drink of his, now, cool coffee, and then placed the mug back on the table. The cover of darkness, sprinkled with stars, provided a comforting sense of protection. As he reflected on his three incarnations, Byzas, Mehmet, and Suleyman, his heart longed for Keroessa.

Although his soul had embodied Mehmet the Conquer and Suleyman the Magnificent, two of the greatest sultans of all times, it was in the body of Byzas that he longed to return, for that was when he and his mother were last together.

Usman asked, “Can you recall the physical features of Mehmet and Suleyman? I’ve seen renderings, but hearing it from you would mean much more.”

“I’m aware of what history tells us about these great men and I am humbled by it. My regressions have only revealed fragments of their lives. In my research, I have uncovered much more. I must say that once I was certain of my incarnations in these men, the history books have come alive. The details of each regression have been easily confirmed with absolute accuracy. Both men were much alike, and interestingly, much like myself: tall, well muscled and strong with aquiline noses. Each had delicate complexions, their skin very pale; almost pallor.”

“Were they albinos?”

“I don’t think so. They each had sharp vision, which is not characteristic of albinos. Not only am I cursed with being a spectacle in my white skin, my vision suffers greatly.”