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,
Daniel
Mikael’s Third Dream
(38)
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.
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.”
CONTINUE ADVENTURE BY CLICKING HERE
Marshall Stalin? Wait a second... It isn't Joe, but Papa Vargulf using psychic coercion to appear to be him. This means big trouble.
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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