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Wednesday, 13 March 2013

Chapter 38 of The Last King of Shambhala

Hola Reader!

Get ready.

This chapter begins with another of Mikael's recurring dreams.  *Gasp*  Will he discover the meaning of it?  Or will he come upon Papa Vargulf again? ... 

... You'll just need to read this one with all your lights on, and a stress ball in both hands, to find out...

If you have missed any of the previous chapters, but would still like to read the book quickly becoming the major whisper point of secret, government-denied, underground, high security book clubs only mentioned in morse code in binaural beats on the most secret and secure conspiracy YouTube channels...

Then you can do so by clicking below (the chapter list is starting to look quite long):

Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37

Until Monday my blog sisters and brothers,


Mikael’s Third Dream
Ryan’s Saloon.  Baltimore, United States of America.  Midgard, the land of the humans.  October, 1849.
After madly scribbling down the location of the psychotronic weapon, and the layout of the building where it was kept – including where the patrolling soldiers walked and estimates of their ‘change of guard’ – Mikael could no longer fight his sagging eyes.
He slept for a number of hours before awakening in his reoccurring dream of the dying man.  As with the previous two times, it started with Mikael spiralling downward into a woman’s body with soft words echoing through his head:
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule –
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of space – out of time.
This time he focused on taking control of the dream body, and with some effort, he found he was able to move towards the drunk, frightened man against the wall.
“Rognwald, you came,” croaked the dishevelled man.  “I knew you’d come.”
“Who is Rognwald?” questioned Mikael.
The man’s forehead furrowed.  “You are Rognwald.  Rognwald, the powerful sorcerer given the responsibility of being the King of Shambhala’s right hand man.  You are the man I came to meet, are you not?  Well, the reincarnation of him anyway, considering you’re a lady and Rognwald has been dead for hundreds of years.”
“Why did you get so drunk?” Mikael asked.
“To blot out the memories of what I have done,” replied the man, grabbing Mikael’s collar.  “I have sinned against my fellow man to the highest degree.  I have robbed him of his greatest possession.  I have drunk blood with the darkest Eidolon, and it was my hand that committed his evils.”
“I can help you release the guilt and go towards the light, but first you need to help me,” Mikael said, holding the man’s hands.
The man’s head rolled about as he attempted to nod his approval.
“Is he alright, lady?” came a voice behind Mikael.  It was the one of the three men who had found the drunkard in the first two incarnations of the dream.
Remembering the next part of the dream Mikael quickly responded, “I’m a nurse.  I’d like to save this man’s life, but I’ll need somewhere quiet so I can be alone with him.  We don’t have much time.  Do you know of a place?”
“Is it serious?” said another man.
“I’m afraid so,” Mikael said nodding.
“We can take him to the cellar,” the first man replied.  “Having a drunk lounging out the front of your saloon doesn’t bode well for business anyway.  Even if he happens to be a man of fame.”
“Fame?” Mikael asked.
“He don’t look like the spic and spec man in the newspapers right now, but I know this man’s face.  This is Edgar Allan Poe.”
“The poet?”
“No, the rubbish collector,” grunted the man in response.  “Of course the damn poet.”
The three men and Mikael picked up the drunkard and carried him inside and down some stairs to a dusty cellar among barrels of liquor and racks of wine.  They laid him on the table, and upon Mikael’s instruction, went back upstairs closing the cellar door behind them.
“Hopefully this will give us some time before Papa Vargulf finds us,” Mikael stammered.  “Now tell me, why do you keep coming into my dreams?  What is it you want to tell me?”
“I come into your dreams because I need to be released from my internal burning… there is nothing worse than the burning of a soul,” screamed Edgar, his eyes flicking about the room.  “I cannot live with such a painful burden any longer.”
“Talk quietly,” said Mikael.  “You are torturing yourself.  Tell me what you have done and it will help you let go of the thought form you are trapped in.”
“I have worked under the Order of the Black Sun, the Thule Society.  I have been a tool for their mind controlling activities.”
“I don’t understand,” Mikael said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.  “Edgar Allan Poe is a poet if I’m not mistaken.  Not a brainwasher.”
“I am indeed a poet, that is correct, but I am also a brainwasher.  Many of us are.  Many of us in the arts have laid the groundwork for this mind manipulation to work even against the most strong willed of minds.”
“How could you do that?”
“We are taken to the island of Thule and brought before the powerful Papa Vargulf himself.  He is quite charming; sits us down for dinner with many other artists, and promises us power beyond our wildest dreams.  A quick and easy way to achieve the success we have strived for.  We are seduced by the dark powers of Papa Vargulf, and initiated into the Thule Society, signing a contract in blood.”
“And everyone that goes signs this contract?”
“No, but not all who go to Thule come back.  Of course, those that do return, don’t come back the same person.  The new initiates sacrifice those who refuse to sign.  I myself held a ceremonial dagger and stabbed two fellow artists in the heart to prove my loyalty.”
Edgar’s mouth trembled.
“Even the most horrible acts of cruelty can be forgiven when the soul forgives itself,” said Mikael, placing a hand on Edgar’s head.  “You are starting the process of forgiveness by helping me.”
“That is what you said in your note,” said Edgar.  “The King of Shambhala’s ravens haunted my guilt-ridden dreams for many a night.  I wrote of this experience in a poem, hoping somebody would hear and save me from the dark shapes fluttering at the bottom of my bed, and you, my dear woman, heard my cries – understood the meaning hidden deep within the prose.”  His head fell on his chest.  “But by the time you came, Papa Vargulf had already killed me.  He moves within the shadows, and was gone before even the walls could witness his retreat.”
“I don’t understand,” interrupted Mikael.  “What did Papa Vargulf want with entertainers and writers?  What do you mean you ‘laid the groundwork?’
Edgar squinted his eyes at Mikael.  “Isn’t it obvious to you, Rognwald?  I thought you would have worked it out by now, considering your knowledge of the power of rune symbols and words.
“We are guaranteed success by Papa Vargulf, and in return for this gift, we use subliminal symbols and messages in our art to ready the global conscious mind, and to make the world’s intellect susceptible to the weapon.  We plant messages of insecurity, fear, helplessness and darkness in the unguarded subconscious.
“Musicians hide messages in their music, artists in their paintings, writers in their literary works, news corporations in their news releases, and so forth.
“Have you heard the story of Robert Johnson?  He had a burning desire for fame and to be the best blues guitarist and singer in the world.  So, like many before him, he went to the crossroads at midnight and gave his soul to the devil in exchange for his dream.  That story is symbolic of his deal with Papa Vargulf.  I’ve done that same deal at the ‘crossroads’, just many years earlier.
“And have you heard about Niccolo Paganini, the Italian violin virtuoso of the late 1700s who wore only black and played without equal?  When asked about his ‘genius’, he proudly stated that he danced with the devil.  His talent was not of this world.
“Using artists is what Papa Vargulf calls the spider web of confusion.  A technique that blurs the line between wrong and right, that leads humans away from their god-given intuition, and that makes their minds more malleable.”
“Can Papa Vargulf be stopped?”
“In the presence of purity, no evil exists,” whispered Edgar Allan Poe, his eyes staring through Mikael.  “The answer is hidden in the verse of my poem. The one that rings in your ears.”
Suddenly, an unseen force threw Mikael across the cellar against the far brick wall.  Disoriented, he picked himself up, steadying himself against the wall. Blood gushed from his ears.
Mikael spun around to see Papa Vargulf at the doorway.
“Mikael, is it?” Papa Vargulf smirked.  “Mikael, the hero who thinks he is going to stop me, I presume?  What an interesting little fellow you are.”
For the second time, Mikael was thrown to the other side of the cellar.  He hit the wall with such force that it cracked from the impact.
The light above began swinging back and forth on its own accord.
“You know what I’m going to do after I’ve killed you and taken control over this stinking planet?” smirked Papa Vargulf, watching as Mikael slid up the wall.  “I am going to create an army of supernaturals and seize control of Aghartha.”
Mikael slid across the wall towards Papa Vargulf, who grabbed him with both hands and threw him through the cellar door.
Mikael scampered backwards up the stairs and the Nazi psychic followed him.
“Then,” he continued, “I will make the leaders of Aghartha beg for their lives, before killing them.  I will pronounce myself ruler of both Aghartha and this world.
“You may call me a big dreamer, but naturally, with the technology of Aghartha, and an army of millions, there will be nothing to stop me from taking over the entire universe – including the holy land of Shambhala.  I will become Supreme God.”
Mikael made a run for the exit to the saloon, but was flung into a table in the main drinking area.  The patrons leaped up out of their seats, and the owner of the saloon made his way to Papa Vargulf.
The owner began to order Papa Vargulf out, but with one flick of the psychic’s hand, the saloon owner collapsed, dying before his head cracked against the stone flooring.
“So how are you going to stop me hero?” the psychic sneered.  “How on earth do you think you can stop a plan I have been working on for hundreds of years?”
Mikael rose to his feet and glared at Papa Vargulf.  “Act smug all you like, but we will defeat you.”
“Better be quick, your alcohol-pickled brain couldn’t even pick up what a substandard psychic like Aleksandra sensed,” said Papa Vargulf pointing to a grandfather clock in the corner.  “You’ve got about ten seconds to escape.”
The glass case of the grandfather clock shattered and Mikael woke up with a start.
Three men in trench coats were approaching his seat; one carrying an umbrella and wearing an ‘ushanka’ fur hat, the other two flanking him (presumably henchmen), concealing pistols under their armpits.
Mikael rose from his seat and hurried down the train, clutching the sketches of the psychotronic weapon’s location against his chest.
The three men rushed after him, pushing through the passengers in their way.
Aleksandra and Cyan stood on the deck outside the carriage, by the car-connection, looking out at the passing woods, feeling the cold wind against their skin and breathing in the burning coal billowing down the train.
Aleksandra and Cyan smiled as they looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes.
Cyan shook his head and grinned even wider.
“If we fail to stop Papa Vargulf,” started Aleksandra, her smile falling, “we may not remember things.  Could be last moments together.”
“Why are Russians always so pessimistic?” chuckled Cyan.  “We will stop Papa Vargulf.  If anyone can do it, Mikael can.  You’ve seen his natural ability for yourself.”
“I know this,” agreed Aleksandra.  “But in case, I want to say it was nice seeing you again.”
“Well, thank you,” said Cyan.  “It is always nice seeing your china doll face, but this will not be the last time.”
Aleksandra smiled to herself, turning her eyes to the passing tracks below.  Cyan positioned himself so his back was against the railing.  There were a few moments of silence between the two of them.
“I know it’s a little loopy,” said Cyan, breaking the silence, “but I still like you, Aleksandra.  After all the things we’ve been through, you are still very special to me.  A pleasant thought.”
“Love is mad,” she replied with a grin.  “Emotion reserved for ‘loopies’.”
“I didn’t say I love you,” corrected Cyan.  “I said I like you.”
Aleksandra hit Cyan’s hat downward playfully.  “You say it last night, after too many drinks, I think.”
“Oh, right, well, that was a sly trick you played.  But you know what men are like; it’s very hard for us to turn down a challenge like that.”  He paused for a beat.  “Yes, of course you know the psychology of men and their inability to decline a challenge, you’re trained in these types of things, and you’re a psychic.  I presume…”
“So, do you love me?” she interrupted.
“I think you already know.”
“I do,” she answered.  “But I want to hear you say it.”
“I do love you, more than I can really understand.  You’re in my head night and day, even when more important things should be.  My meditations disrupted with pesky thoughts of you.  And when I think of Papa Vargulf succeeding, the most painful thought is that he would possess your beautiful mind, the most wonderous mind of all beings.
“As the King of Shambhala I am not allowed to love one human more than the next... I am not meant to protect one person over another... but you make this law quite impossible to follow.  I could not live another day if something were to happen to you.”
“I love you too,” said Aleksandra, diverting her eyes to the woods.  “Very much.  Not that you ask, but there you have it.  It goes against rules too, but… I cannot control my heart, as much as I say.”
“Ale…” Cyan started, but couldn’t finish her name.
Aleksandra turned around.  The two looked at each other, occasionally diverting their eyes to each other’s lips, drawing in breaths almost in unison.
The Russian agent’s forehead creased, and she swallowed hard.
Cyan leant in and kissed her, resting his hands lightly on her waist.  Her hands ran through his hair and pulled him in.
They pulled away briefly, before locking lips once again.
The door of the carriage swung open.  It was Mikael.
“We’ve got to get off the train,” he blurted.
“What is wrong?” Aleksandra growled, pushing Cyan off her.  She softened her tone.  “We almost in Dusseldorf.  Cyan was just…”
“There’s three men,” Mikael panted, gesturing towards the carriage.
“Alright,” Cyan said, “up on the roof.”
Mikael handed Aleksandra the sketches of the location of the psychotronic weapon and she stuffed them inside her coat.  The Master Sage lifted her up onto his shoulders and she climbed up onto the roof.
Cyan gestured for Mikael to follow.
“Are you serious?” rasped Mikael.
“Pretend you’re one of those American West heroes,” beamed Cyan, lifting Mikael up onto his shoulders.
Mikael dragged himself up onto the roof.
As he did, a bullet smashed through the glass window of the exit door and grazed Cyan’s shoulder.  The passengers in the carriage screamed and made way for the three men in trench coats.
Cyan put one foot on the railing and launched himself up onto the roof.  The other two helped him up.
“To the front of the train,” Cyan ordered.
Keeping low, the three of them began making their way to the front of the train.
“Aleksandra,” came a voice from behind.
They turned to see the three men in trench coats pulling themselves up onto the roof.
“Aleksandra,” came the voice again.  It was the man in the fur hat with the umbrella.
“Kolzak?” Aleksandra answered, walking back towards him.  “Do not shoot.”
Kolzak muttered something in Russian to the two men beside him.
“We could not risk waiting until Dusseldorf to meet you.  This Cyan is too risky.”
Aleksandra began piecing together the night on the ship, after her three drinking companions had passed out.
“What’s this all about?” asked Cyan, now by Aleksandra’s side.  “Who are these people, and why do they think it is going to rain on such a clear night?”  He pointed to the agent’s umbrella.
“Kolzak is top NKGB agent.  I work closely with in Moscow,” answered Aleksandra.
Kolzak pointed his umbrella at Cyan and a dart shot out from the tip.  The dart hit Cyan in the neck and the Master Sage collapsed.
Aleksandra grabbed him before he rolled off.
The Russian man then pointed the umbrella at Aleksandra.  “You and this Mikael are coming with us.  Marshall Stalin requests to see all three of you.”


Marshall Stalin?  Wait a second...  It isn't Joe, but Papa Vargulf using psychic coercion to appear to be him.  This means big trouble.
You'll just need to... yep, that is right.  You know it right?  Mondays and Wednesdays.  See you then.  Same time, same blog.

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