The Prophet to Zion: Chronicles of Grey: Book I

Copyright © 2013 by David Logan Graham.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 11/22/2013

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CONTENTS

Dedication/Acknowledgment

Preface

Chapter 1:   Indigo Child

Chapter 2:   Just One of the Boys

Chapter 3:   Sweet Home Alabama

Chapter 4:   They’re Back

Chapter 5:   Synchronicity

Chapter 6:   Najara: The Way of the Shaman

Chapter 7:   Jakara

Chapter 8:   Arms of Love

Chapter 9:   The Hunt

Chapter 10: Trespass upon the Archon World

Chapter 11: They Might Be Giants

Chapter 12: Moths to the Flame as Darkness Falls

Chapter 13: Just because I’m Paranoid Doesn’t Mean I’m Not Being Followed: Enter Illuminati

Chapter 14: Pythagorean Trails of Old Friends Reunited

Chapter 15: Home of the Moloch

Chapter 16: Origin of a species: The Greys

Chapter 17: Into the Rabbit Hole of Lost Love

Chapter 18: Helix Descend

DEDICATION/ACKNOWLEDGMENT

In memory of my loving parents

Kenneth Stonehouse Graham, and Mary Joyce Graham.

And my wonderful dog, Oskar.

I would also like to thank my loving partner Kylie,

for her hours of typing, and that gentle push when required.

The helpful staff at Xlibris,

and all of my wonderful friends who have helped

in so many ways in this magical life.

PREFACE

Much of humanity’s time is spent in perpetual repetition; we are consumed with societies concerns: we eat, we sleep, we work, and we play. Our mind, usually even more active than its physical counterpart, becomes overloaded with the woes of general existence; our thoughts scattered in the wind like dust. Clarity for most being a mere illusion or distant memory; many spend little time in these: ages of technology, to just stop and think; who are we—and what is consciousness?

Just where is mankind heading? Where will the human race fit into the universe—and are we alone? These are perhaps some of the earliest questions that we had asked ourselves.

Join me please upon my journey that’s part fact and part dream, regression, and creative parable. The Prophet to Zion was constructed through extensive research, paranormal experiences, and the constant endeavour to pass on knowledge: living in the altruistic way.

A great mind once said, ‘The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery everyday. Never lose a holy curiosity’. That great mind was Albert Einstein’s; one not only brilliant within his field, but his words displays that of an ‘open mind’.

My hope for you is to enjoy my journey and glean from it what you will. In the end, there is only perception.

CHAPTER 1

Indigo Child

As I write down my words upon this paper, it’s hard to believe this life had a beginning. I’ve seen so much, endured the greatest pains, fought many a battle with the ardent of survival or simply justice for a beneficial end. The question ‘How far down the rabbit hole do you wish to go?’ had always been one answered with, ‘All the way please. Let’s see what’s out there’. A quest for knowledge—forever the savant of life. Looking back now, I see this world as my benediction, my salvation.

To really understand someone, you have to walk a mile in their shoes; so I ask you to walk in mine, see with my eyes, live in my world—feel what I have felt.

Our journey can shape us, or perhaps we shape the adventure; mayhap destiny has given us the arduous tasks to accrue, beseeched to obtain levels of knowledge, skills, and even abilities to endure ones future.

My name is Tyler Grey, and this is my story. Born in Weatherby, a small town in England, Great Britain. It was the July of 1967, after a short relatively painless labor at approximately 4:45 a.m., I entered this world, quiet, just staring with great interest, or so I was told. My parents, Eric and Mary Grey, were happy to be having their fourth child, who was a late addition to the family as the Greys had reached beyond the age of forty by now. The midwife Amy preformed all the birthing procedures due to the fact that our doctor, in such impromptu circumstances of an untimely birth, had not arrived yet. Being such a cold night and Amy living so close by, a ‘home’ birth was the best option at the time, that and my mothers insistence on going nowhere once she’d reached the bottom of the stairs. She’d told me once that the cramps were so bad with me that I had ‘simply demanded’ to be born where she lay.

The doctor arrived in haste. ‘Never have I seen such things!’ he exclaimed as he brushed himself down, hardly noticing the baby had been born, then continuing with his story. ‘My lights on the car went out. If not for the brightness of the moon over your house, I would never have found you. Then the strangest thing’—he paused with a puzzled look—‘When I got out of my vehicle, it appeared that the moon was in fact behind me’. As the story goes, the midwife—Amy—was then to have made them all tea as my father introduced me to the beguiled physician.

After regaining his equilibrium, the doctor checked over both mother and son, giving them a clean bill of health. Embarrassed by his demeanor, he made his visit a short one, apologizing for his excitement. My mother always said, ‘He looked like he’d seen a ghost’. This wasn’t at all unusual in our household. As Amy and my mother, Mary, talked over their cups of tea, Eric’s mind went elsewhere. ‘My fourth child’, he thought out loud with a solicitous look upon his face as he remembered what he was told—indeed a prophecy that Eric would never forget. My father often repeated his stories many times to me in his later years, never embellishing them, resolute in the tenet of their importance.

It was 1941, Eric was fifteen and too young to join the war that raged throughout the land. Against belligerence and from a very ‘spiritual’ family, Eric still eventually succumbed under the peer pressure and propaganda that surrounded the enlistment and war in general. Eric, imprudent and headstrong, has hid date of birth changed to read 1923 rather than 1926. He then used his nous to join in the company of older enlisting boys from his area. Informing them of his situation, they helped him maintain the persona of ‘older Eric’, with a debonair, confident demeanor that was easily able to convince the ardent recruiting officer that he was of age to join. With a great passion for the sea, my father chose the navy. Out of the urgency of war, within twenty-four hours, he was commissioned to serve with the Tigress, a battleship of prodigious quality.

These times for Eric were mostly fond memories of comradeship amongst the crew, fun drunken moments during shore leave; bruised egos and bodies were often had as these such nights often ended in fiery brawls between locals and crewmen. The friends he had made stuck by him as they ran, or staggered, back to their waiting vessel. The nights of emancipation brought forth love, lust, or the pugnacious of the group brought about the fighting frenzies as crewmen and locals raveled in blood and beer. But through the shenanigans, his friends returned with him to face whatever perils awaited them.

Eric, for a short time, was living his fantasy of serving under ‘Captain Nemo’ on the ‘Nautilus’, loving the wondrous ocean adventure.

For years, Eric’s boat was blessed with missing ‘the action’, but his time would come. My father would often lament with dreadful distaste he had over such disregard of human life; this was brought about by the sight he had witnessed of human bodies reduced to mere ashes; his ship was one of a few called in to give report (take samples, etc.) after the big one—‘Hiroshima’. They walked around Japans streets; the nuclear devastation had left a requiem of ash, as if to steal the very ‘existence’ and memories of these people—nothing to bury, no one to mourn. Sickened by this grotesque image, it was no wonder my father was burdened with the animus of war.

It was upon his last adventure of wartime that Eric Grey’s luck had seemed to change. The ship came under enemy fire; from air and sea they, descended upon them like mad hungry animals attacking their prey. His ship was under siege! Eric held his subordinate position: manning one of the many external guns, a weapon to which he was heavily strapped into. Explosions cried out all around. This become a cacophony of deadly vibrations; the noise grew all around him. As in a moment of unusual clarity, he saw a bright white light sweep around him; he felt his body lift up away from the ship and into the icy waters of the ocean.

The salt water rushed around Eric like a waterfall; he swore he heard the words ‘Let go’, as he realized the attachment he’d maintained to his weapon would surely drag him to his doom. However, somehow the strap that had connected Eric was now gone, by some miracle or bizarre occurrence. He propelled himself frantically to taste once again the sweet nectar of survival air. All he could do from then was watch on as his ship was destroyed in flames. A nineteen-year-old boy swept into the salt water as the anguished screams of his fellow crewmen echoed across the sea. His only impetus now was survival.

A pitch-black night replaced the ship’s burning hull. He tried in vain to reach other crewmen, perhaps find a friend or some support through the tempestuous ordeal. Hearing distant calls that bounced around the huge ocean waves, it took all of Eric’s restraint to keep his sanity that night I was told. He recalled this as the ‘longest night of my life’; he’d say this with a detached look of fear on his face.

As the sun arose the next morning, one that Eric had prayed he would witness, his eyes were red, barely open; sleep ready to take this weary warrior. He gifted the sun a half smile in his somnolent state. Ready to give in perhaps, he was jolted to attention by something bumping his legs from under the water. ‘Please don’t let me go out this way!’ he shouted drawing enough breath with his newfound vigor. Before Eric’s relieved eyes, the playful face of a dolphin appeared from the surface of the water, a much welcome relief from the negative images of what lay beneath; my father assured me he’d conjured up before the friendly sea creature had revealed itself. The dolphin stayed alongside Eric for some time, perhaps one may say, keeping him alive.

Hours later, Eric heard men yelling, ‘Over here!’ and ‘We are saved!’ Moments later, he saw the rescue ship; he turned to tell his dolphin friend, but it was now nowhere to be seen—vanished within the blue. That day, they recovered only forty-four survivors. These men were taken to the nearest neutral island. Half demented and near death, Eric had survived the nightmare, but the strain had taken its toll: he lost a great deal of weight, fell ill with malaria. Weak and disorientated, he found himself wandering out of the hospital and on to the beach, aimless. Feeling infirm and barous, he stumbled along. This was where the prophecy unfolds to my birth, the place to which his reflection brought him. Eric was eight years old when he’d lost his father (my grandfather), so you can imagine his surprise to see him, ‘Jack’, waiting for him along the water’s edge.

‘Hello, my son’, he said, smiling at Eric, who stood bewildered and unsteady on his feet. ‘It’s all right now, son, the war is over for you!’ Jack embraced his son, relaxing him in preparation to imbue him with an omen. ‘A prodigy who will posses great wisdom and power will be born to you, your fourth son will be the first of the indigo children, an old soul of great importance. You must introduce him to the world of spirit, and he will embrace it. Immerse him in it!’ he finished empathetically, touched my father’s forehead.

That day, Eric Grey tried to tell everybody about what had transpired on the beach. No one seemed to listen, except one young native nurse who believed him entirely saying, ‘Your skin has colors all around it. Tell me, have you been talking to spirits?’ the girl said with a ‘matter of fact’ manner, not excepting anyone’s theory of hallucination brought on by severe trauma and sickness. ‘Coincidentally’, later that day, the orders came in that my father was relived of duty due to illness. He was to be sent home when deemed fit for the travel.

Eric found it all too real not to accept the fact he was visited by his dead father. Spending much time pondering the predictions he heard on that island beach. The universe or some ‘higher’ power seems to have a way of providing what is needed. My grandmother, Doris Macleod, had been widowed for ten years when Eric had returned home. She’d been courted by an amazing man that her departed husband, ‘Jack’, had huge respect for. Peter was a renowned medium (or spirit channeler), adept at his art during séances. Peter performed ‘projectionism’, which referred to a strange protoplasmic substance was exuded from his body. This ethereal ‘ectoplasm’ gathered its appearance to form the likeness of the spirit’s last physical manifestation. Most mediums of the time lost consciousness during séances, allowing spirits to ‘use’ the host’s body, who usually have no memory of the event.

Peter’s ability to achieve this mastery was said to have come down a long linage of sorcery and magic. He had been practicing since 1904. Over the years, his group attracted many devout members including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of the Sherlock Holmes series, as well as many other showmen, aristocrats, and such, holding the group’s secrecy as sacred. During these meetings, Peter would first bring in the energy of his spirit guide: Fogrill (Spirit guide—soul that is in some way connected deeply with you, often through previous lives. This spirit is here devoted to help a greater cause, keep us safe to achieve our destiny), who was a medicine man or shaman in his previous incarnation; a wise old man who’s nobility and sense of humor were loved and respected.

Fogrill, being greatly adept to the physical influence he shared with Peter, was said to have saved his life in a moment of near tragedy—a co-worker had, in a state of impetuous behaviour, forgotten to secure restraints placed upon the trucks rear, which held in the contents as the trey’s rear was released. The expected result of his actions would have seen both Peter and his co-worker crushed by the vehicles heavy load. At that instant, Fogrill took over Peter’s body (a temporary metempsychosis) and, with a single arm, held back the weighty load until the restraints were replaced.

One particular séance (that Eric had continued to frequent until Peter’s passing in 1962), my father told me many times of how it was affirmed that I was meant for something special. He’d never told anyone about how he’d seen his father that day on the beach; it was just something he chose to keep to himself (apart from the doctors and nurses in the hospital.). This was Peter’s last meeting. Without warning, Fogrill’s image turned to Eric. ‘The prophecy you were told on the island is true. Become the channel for his sake. Keep the doorway open.’

‘Tyler’, Eric announced. ‘We’ll call him Tyler after my yank navy buddy’. Mary smiled that contrived grin for a moment then replied, ‘That’s a wonderful name. He will be strong and caring.’ She stated it with a most assured tone. Of that she was somehow certain. With her own state of mind in turmoil, depression had found her drawn into discontent; a morbid outlook on the state of humanity, and she was often found lost, wandering in strange paces in search of unknown treasures.

My first memories—not those that were stories implanted into us about ourselves or our environment; those real ones I can still picture today—are of the meetings (séances) my father begun having. He was asked to begin shortly after my second birthday. People kept suggesting spirits or some unseen power would leave subtle hints to begin connecting. I think I was around two? Eric never obtained the same level of mastery that Peter had reached as a medium, but effective he was; he would shut his system down, repeating Fogrill’s name, etching his image within his mind like a mantra. When Eric’s breathing increased, it meant he was leaving. I’d quickly take my position on his lap, a jolt of ‘electricity-like’ energy I would feel. His face distorted, the voice changed pitch, even his smell was altered. It was like an ethereal mask was placed over my father’s face to replace his own. Fogrill was actually the first name I spoke.

From the age of three, on many days, I was left alone due to my mother’s erratic state of mind. Fogrill was to become my minder, guide, teacher, and friend. I was eager to learn his lessons and saturate myself within spirit realms. He introduced me to my animal ‘totem’, or spirit animal (Marzoo—who was a magnificent golden-colored lion). As he entered the room, there was always that odorous scent that pervades the area accompanied by the feeling of warmth.

I was often left alone for many hours. In these times of solitude, Fogrill and Marzoo would come to me. They came to gift me with knowledge of altered states of consciousness, I was told that the ‘shaman’s magic burnt bright within me’. I had become withdrawn and recluse from most other children who often referred to me as weird or scary. Children were taught young to fear the unknown. I was the pariah in our small community, shunned by all but the spiritual or open-minded.

By the age of four, I’d achieved many things: been inside a lion’s cage and stood face-to-face with the king of the jungle. This was after I’d slipped from my father’s grip and squeezed through the bars at London zoo. It seemed quite sensible to me: having spent many hours around the spirit version of Marzoo. In later years, it became easier to differentiate between spirit and physical form. The second event was to meet my parents’ favorite singer, Roy Orbison. The singer took a liking to me, sitting me on his knee throughout the whole charity soccer match he’d attended. I sensed a great sorrow within the lonely musician’s heart. The third event of note came as we moved into a new county, Leeds. My parents managed a hotel or ‘pub’ as it was known, by the name of ‘The Peacock’’; this establishment was located nearby to the sports stadium of the then world famous side of Leeds United. In the early 1970s, Leeds was one of the worlds best soccer teams, I still remember clearly wondering over (not even five yet), asking the boys from Leeds United, if it was all right for me to come and have a kick around with them? The team laughed warmly with my upfront manner. For me, I just liked their energy, as a team; even just playing around for such a sensitive child, it was exhilarating. No wonder they won so many games, I’d thought at the time. The fourth and final event eclipsed all.

My lessons taught me to expect the unexpected, to view situations through a psychic feel rather than fear; ‘never judge a book by its cover’, as the old saying goes. One night while the rest of the family were upstairs, I had a most unusual experience; whilst I sat playing quietly on the corner of my room, my mind was distracted from my game by the faint thrum that seemed to resonate from the walls themselves. As the hum grew louder, a white luminescent light filled the room. As the brightness increased, I had to close my eyes from its intensity. With closed eyes, the feeling of vertigo, the loss of substance overcame me. I was moving in circles. Before panic could rule my mind, I practiced my breathing, bringing my heart rate down. The earth was still once again as I opened my eyes. There before me, three strange beings were manifesting themselves. ‘Walking through the walls’, they were grey in color with large black glistening eyes, probably only a little over three feet in height, and wore silver ‘jumpsuit’ type clothing. It—surprisingly to most—hadn’t been the first time I’d seen someone come through my walls; however, it was the first time I’d faced beings of such different appearances.

Words and thoughts external to my own tumbled through my mind, until I realized they were communicating with me, telepathically. It was hard to understand at first, but in moments, it became clear. They were here to help me, as I would help them in the future. They appealed to the child as well as the older consciousness that resided within us all (some call this ‘Monad’).

The visitors stayed for a while; they even played cars with me while my mind was being bombarded with a myriad of thoughts. The highest part of me sensed these creatures to be no threat. Benign, they were kind to me, trying to put my mind at ease.

Their intensions were unknown, but I believed my instinct. As the strange beings were saying ‘goodbye’, the physical silence was interrupted by loud thumps upon my door. It was my farther, frantically yelling, ‘What’s going on!?’ They faded backward again, gaining intangibility and passing through the wall. As their exit was complete, my father, Eric, came rushing through the door as if on fire. He sighed to see me safe. ‘There was light… coming through the door, I couldn’t open it!’ Eric’s voice was a quandary of enigmatic fear as he saw one of my matchbox cars come rolling to me. ‘Who was here?’ Eric questioned, thinking perhaps it was a spirit visiting, still worried over not being granted immediate access to me. ‘The strange, black-eyed kids came to play and speak,’ I said with the pure innocence of a child. My answer made Eric even more uneasy. He developed a fear of leaving me alone. And for him, there was something different about this occurrence. I felt my father’s distain for it.

In June 1973, my family—that is my dad, Eric; mum, Mary, and older brother Jack—immigrated to Australia for a warmer climate. By this time, my two eldest brothers Ron and Steven had wives, jobs, and places of their own, so they decided to stay. The family was now of four. A new life, a brand-new adventure, I was especially excited to be among so many more animals. England was very limited in that aspect, and I could only find so many creatures to talk with during our holiday visits to Castle Howard. So the journey continued for me as we headed to South Australia.

Eric loved Australia. He’d spent three years droving cattle through Western Australia in the 1950s. He was eager to return to a much more desirable weather. It was a shock to my system joining a new school in Australia. I had become accustomed to being an outcast due to my experiences, or ‘beliefs’, as I was ‘told’ to call them. Here, I was referred to as the ‘pommy bastard’ by other students, a nickname I had earned from one scurvy lad who’d taken a disliking to me before I’d yet uttered my first word. Taunts from others referring to the land in which you were born or the colour of our skins have always been alien to me. I was more offended when my honesty or beliefs were being ridiculed than something ‘out of one’s conscious control’. I learnt to develop a strong system of humor in defense to their feeble mockery. From this system, it would result in the guy either having a good laugh back, often shaking my hand, or the threat of physical confrontation. It was sometimes the doctrine in society when the foibles of our general value system are shown in the words of the children. I was being ridiculed by ignorant minds, passed on by a fear based on dogmatic ideology.

The battles I had early in these schools kept me on my toes. My life really shifted when my parents brought a nice comfortable house. This allowed us to get pets (or friends as I would call them). Eric came across a mischievous fox terrier, whom I named ‘Theodoor’, and then shortly after a beautiful golden-and-black-colored German shepherd already named Barron. I had turned ten by this time; Jack was seventeen, driving and completing high school. He had many friends and even a girlfriend. We had grown apart; our interests were very different at that time. My love was the dogs and my solitary time; I’d also found three real friends: Richard, Alan and Paul. These three made the school side of things easy. I began to express myself in artistic ways, leaving the more confronting elements of my spirituality unknown to my friends. I suspect they would have known I had an ‘out there’ concept but never would have guessed why. It was my wish to remain arbitrary during that time; a sort of ‘time out’ from myself, letting me play as a child for a while.

One night after a long hot humid day, I sought the early slumber of my awaiting nest. As I become comfortable, I heard a low-pitched sound that seemed to vibrate through my entire core. My eyes felt locked shut; my body had an intense feeling of being paralyzed. It seemed like at least five minutes that I was unable to retrieve my senses; the air changed around me many times. I also had the feeling of energies surrounding me. When I opened my eyes, I still couldn’t feel my physical self, as if I was extricated from my body. I found myself standing in the backyard. Was I dreaming? I wandered. Disorientated, stumbling towards the back door, almost falling into the swimming pool as I past by the watery edge. The door was locked, and all the inside lights were out. It was only 8:00 p.m. when I went to bed; surely it was no later than 8.30 then, I thought. I knocked at the door. It was a warm, balmy night, but my body still trembled, my teeth chattered. The dogs barked for a moment followed by the lights turning on. I knocked a second time, thinking they’d probably go to the front door otherwise. The door opened to reveal the puzzled look on my father’s face. ‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked. I tried to reply, but my vocal chords seemed unable yet to function correctly. All I got was a mumble of unknown content. My mother rushed me inside in a pragmatic manner, putting a blanket around me while she put the kettle on. In England, a cup of tea was the cure to 95 per cent of ailments and harrowing experiences. Eric relocked the back door, searching for an open exit to find a logical reason to how I got outside. ‘The doors and windows are all locked from the inside’, my mother said in retort to my father’s search for the truth.

A quote that seemed apt for this moment would be from Arthur Conan Doyle himself: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever else remains, no matter how improbable, it must be the truth’; however, equivocal logic is often used to soothe tethered minds. ‘I’ve got it!’ Eric exclaimed ‘Tyler was sleepwalking. He opened the back door and shut the door behind him’, he stated most indubitably, a gratified look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Locked from the inside, I did it myself by key’, Mum again retorted with a pinch of sarcasm. She was always amazed at how a medium with the lifestyle he’d led could be so close-minded at times; perhaps this was the reason my father remembered nothing during his ‘channeling’ sessions. Eric’s face dropped as all rational explanations left him; he threw his arms up in the air, surrendering to the conundrum.

Shortly after this last incident, my father took me to see the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Throughout the viewing, I had pervasive uncomfortable feelings; it was like watching a documentary disguised as a movie. There was something way to close to ‘home’ with this Spielberg masterpiece. The night after I was entrusted to stay home alone, whilst my parents frequented some kind of function, I took this opportunity to invite my three friends over: Richard, Paul, and Alan. As planned, they arrived promptly at seven thirty. The sun was just setting as the lads rolled in, their dials set for station rumbustious. We spent the first hour looking through my brother Jack’s collection of Playboy magazines, that seemed to satisfy the curiosity of my comrades (and my own) fascination with the naked female form at that time. ‘That was sensational!’ remarked Alan with a look of sheer satisfaction; Richard and Paul were a bit more reserved with their appreciation. ‘Very nice’ were Paul’s words while Richard just nodded with a goofy grin.

This seemed to me to be a good warm up on ‘tearing down walls’. It lightened the mood so we could talk and be real and honest. We chatted for some time, telling stories of all sorts of adventures and strange happenings. This was the perfect time to tell my friends of my supposed ‘sleepwalking’ experience. I watched the change of expressions as my story unfolded. Funnily enough, the diversity of all three reactions was in some ways similar to the varied public opinions on the extra terrestrial subject.

Paul was simply astonished. ‘What do you think happened?’ he asked. Richard found the concept ludicrous. ‘You’re making this up!’ he spouted, convinced I’d contrived it all in some effort to challenge his beliefs. Alan had the idea that demons had kidnapped me but actually making a good point. ‘How do you know? You don’t remember how long you were gone. Maybe they sucked out all your memory.’ (Strangely stated, the term ‘missing time’ coined in many a UFO magazine came to mind.) ‘What do you think happened?’ Richard repeated Paul’s question. Richard was a boy of science; he thought about things deeply. He’d seen my reactions to the others’ comments and decided that although I was known for humor, it wasn’t directed to mislead people. I think he also eventually figured that I’d have nothing to gain by creating such a story. ‘Well, it’s hard to describe, but the feeling I had during the whole time was that three energies or beings were around me. It reminded me when I was a child. They came through the wall, and they looked a lot like the creatures at the end of Close Encounters, except with bigger eyes.’ Richard and Paul had both seen movie, my words brought about a quick response. ‘Aliens. You think its aliens?’ Rich said with a dubious grin. I thought it best to take a step back from there. This was perhaps good psychology. ‘Tell me, Rich, if this happened to you, what would you think it was?’ The question was thrown back to the crowd; what would they think? Take away any assumptions of what motives a person may have to create such a tail, but how indeed would you feel? The uncertainty and disbelief of those closest to me would be a constant splinter within my heart.

Later, I threw in a contingency event. ‘Perhaps I was teleported outside and was stuck in another dimension’, I said, seeking a lighter response. ‘Dimension of comic books I bet’, Richard said in retort. ‘I still reckon it was demons’, Alan added (it was no wonder he developed a taste for heavy metal). The rest of our night of sooth and freedom was spent rapt within vivacious laughter. As the boys were leaving, Paul stayed for a moment saying, ‘I believe you. A few weeks ago, I saw what looked like a full moon, but it was just above your house. I thought it was a dream until you told your story’. As he walked off home, we both glanced upward in wonder.

One of the many reasons we’d moved to Australia was that my mother had felt the cold ‘within my bones’, she’d said. That feeling had returned; she began having severe cramps, headaches, and general nausea. These symptoms got worse as time went on, giving no other option than a medical examination. Mary gave little semblance of the extent of her pain that I heard her describe once as ‘a toothache to the entire body’. Weeks of various tests and the results were in: cancer—a word that a family never wants to hear. Bone cancer to be precise—an insidious event of inert cells igniting their destruction of life.

My mother’s condition was stable for a period of time after a bombardment of ‘treatments’ and medications were thrust upon her. At times, I’d see her pale and drawn; she always tried to cover her pain with a smile, never really wanting me to know. However, my empathy had felt her ails, which brought about grief. These woes manifested themselves in nightmares—horrific and chilling dreams. I had asked my mother to request a séance. It had been some time since the last and, in my mind, was well overdue. As I’d gotten older, the clear images of spirits and the communication had faded. I would see images out of the corner of my eye, have a ‘sense’ of them, but nothing like the clarity I’d received as a child. ‘I’ve asked dad heaps, he won’t listen to me’, I’d said to my mother, hoping her plea for the spirit union would persuade him.

Eric had been depressed for some time; as if he’d known Mary’s condition was serious. I think he believed she’d brought about her illness through her own negative actions. At times, Mary had expressed tempestuous thoughts of darkness; a need to leave this raucous reality of war, the anger, cruelty, and the other fetid foibles of mankind. She had perhaps found a way out, he’d thought. But Eric was simply feeling abandoned. The term ‘proximal abandonment’ comes into mind; it means someone is physically present, but not emotionally present. This would have described my father very aptly at that time. Mary knew how to appeal to Eric’s better side, convincing him to have another séance. A memorable one for me as it was to be the last one I’d have with him.

Friday night; Jack was happy to exit the house on a date; he was never quite sure how to react at these events: a combination of being dubious and fearing the unknown, he’d revealed to me in later years. Jack mooned me from his friend’s car. As they drove by, I noticed the ‘real’ moon was also full. ‘Twin moons’, I thought laughing, thinking that has to be a good omen. The ambiance contrived meticulously. Mary. even in her weak state, seemed pert and sprightly. She’d even arranged all the settings with vigor in her stride. I was excited to see her this way once again. Eric took his usual seat; this was where he would simply switch off, and the only thing he focused on was Fogrill’s face. Even though it had been a long time between séances, Eric’s breathing became deeper and more pronounced almost instantly. I remember feeling like the room was suddenly crowded. As the energy changed—like that intense feeling you get when you are caught between a lovers’ heated argument—the air seemed somewhat thicker; it’s similar to that, only more of a sumptuous feeling, an uplifting one, rather than one of repulsion.

Eric sat upright; his frame, features, and demeanor had gone through a kind of metamorphosis. He cleared his throat with a deep, resonating hum. ‘Hello’, he said in a distinctive deep voice I knew so well. ‘Fogrill’, I said excitedly, recognizing that connection again. ‘I have missed sharing words with you both’, Fogrill said as he smiled and laughed joyfully, letting us know he’d missed us as we had missed him. ‘A trinity of questions you have for me, little warrior’, he stated in his unmistakable ‘tone’ of knowledge. It was how I knew my dad could never trick me. Fogrill would always give me some of my unsaid thoughts: the number of questions I had thought about all day, but within my mind only.

I smiled to Fogrill, a smile that turned to concern with the advent of my first question: ‘Mum’s sick and in lots of pain. What’s going to happen? I want to see her happy again with no pain’. As tears welled in the corners of my eyes, my mother grasped my hand whilst we awaited the answer to my question. ‘She will be out of pain and happy in six months.’ He paused for a while. reaching out to Mary. touching her shoulder. ‘She will be dancing again. But with us’ Fogrill ended his answer with that. We both were fully aware of what this would portend to. I looked to see—or more feel—what she felt at that moment. It was as if a sentence was handed down to her. Was it relief from the mortal toil? Ready to take her place in the after life, her only real regret she told me was how she would miss Jack and myself.