Fallen Masters Page 3

  Although she was not educated beyond high school level, Mama G had studied the ancient wisdom and esoteric teachings of the stars on her own, and no one understood or taught astrology the way she did, with her island intuition and unique insights into traditional ways of matching the power and position of the stars with human life.

  As an astrologer with psychic powers, she wrestled with the conflicts that sometimes arose between her access to knowledge of the metaphysical nature of the world and her deep faith in a loving God who had created the universe, of which she knew in her heart she was but a minute part.

  Patricia Rose Greenidge did not believe in predestination, the belief that all events throughout eternity have been preordained by divine decree, including each individual’s ultimate destiny. No, she could not go there. She thought, instead, how sad it was for those who believed that their own lives were plotted out in their entirety—either by an astrological chart or a divine plan that could not be altered.

  If that were the case, how could one learn anything from life? Why would you try to improve yourself, help others, or strive to do better? The answer is, you wouldn’t. In the predestination scenario, you would simply accept that your lot in life was set in stone based on God’s unchanging will—period. End of story.

  Instead, Mama G believed—and preached constantly—that human beings decide what it is their souls need to learn and experience before they incarnate on the Earth plane. She saw her role—that is, how she employed her God-given gifts—as that of a guide for others on their earthly journeys, which often put her in direct conflict with some of her more conservative family members and neighbors. The world embraced her, but her own island sometimes judged her harshly, and even ostracized her.

  But Mama G persevered, knowing deep in her heart, in the very core of her being, she had a purpose, and that purpose revealed itself each day as she sought to help others.

  She could not, and would not, attempt to force her own vision on any individual who sought her guidance. She understood that her purpose was to help people unlock their own free will and inner resources to cope with life and to find their own way to the Source. She often urged her listeners to, “Live passionately in the days that have been given to you. Be of help to others in your life as an instrument of the Universe. Do good at every opportunity—and do nothing rather than something that would harm another person.”

  But what good were such noble intentions in the face of the momentous catastrophe that Mama G foresaw as a coming storm on the horizon of time?

  Mama G had studied where the Earth had been and where it was going. Now, as the Earth and its people entered into the new Age of Aquarius, a twenty-six-thousand-year cycle was coming—some would say colliding—to an end. The Earth neared an alignment with the stars in relation to the sun, which would rise on the winter solstice at the very center of the galaxy in a short time. In metaphysical and astrological terms, the people faced the end of days, and Patricia Rose Greenidge could not see beyond that point to a future for mankind.

  She was aware, too, of the end of the Mayan calendar that charted the very same epochal cycles she was appreciating with profound questioning, now, of what she must do.

  O Lord, she prayed in silence, show us the way to understand the true knowledge of our existence in whatever time is left to us.

  Mama G knew that the world was facing a chance for change. But if the people did not grasp it and make the necessary changes, the chance would be lost forever. She knew, too, that she was being deliberately blocked by some unknown force: Her abilities, once so free-flowing, were being limited or harnessed in some way.

  It was as if the gathering clouds of darkness sought to muddy her thoughts, muffle her words, and stall her actions by shifting the energies around and within her in ways contrary to what she had known for her entire life. Something was different this time, and she wasn’t certain exactly how or why. And I don’t know what I can do about these dark energies, she thought grimly.

  What if they are more powerful than we poor human beings can handle?

  CHAPTER

  6

  Belfast

  The body was that of a young woman. She was completely nude when she was found and the police were called. The coroner had arrived with a police escort, and as he examined the body, he spoke into a small handheld recorder.

  “I am Dr. Colin O’Reily, medical examiner duly constituted and commissioned to disturb the corpse in the course of my examination. The body is that of a Caucasian female, young—late teens to early twenties. The right side of the face is distorted because of an irregular deforming wound that involves the lateral aspect of the orbit, brow, and the right maxilla. A large amount of dried blood is present on the skin. There is a deep incision over the inner lateral aspect of the left breast that is approximately twelve centimeters in greatest dimension and very deep. I am probing inside the wound and … it is as I expected. The heart has been removed.”

  Despite the fact that the crime scene lay in the midst of a busy city, with life and traffic humming along all around the field where the police now stood, an eerie veil of silence had descended upon those present. The examiner paused to take a breath.

  O’Reily was a veteran of some thirty years in his profession, but this—dear Lord, this was the worst he had ever encountered.

  “Continuing, there are what appear to be scars on the inner aspect of her left thigh I … it appears to be letters. I can make out V-I-V … Viva. Viva Domingo. I am taking samples of debris from the inner aspect of the thighs as well as samples of pubic hair.

  “Turning her over, I see … I’ll be damned. Erin, would you be looking at that now?”

  Erin Donnell, who was one of the homicide officers on the scene, looked as directed. She was much younger than the coroner and not much older than the dead woman.

  “Dear God in Heaven, what is that?” Inspector Donnell asked.

  “It looks to me like some sort of glyph. Though what it might be stymies me.”

  Meticulously carved on the corpse’s back, apparently when she had still been alive, was an elaborate design, now somewhat smudged and dirt-caked. Whatever the symbol was, it was clear, however, that the young woman had suffered unimaginably before her death.

  The police covered the victim and began the laborious process of removing the body for an autopsy. But the one thing that stuck in all their minds was that the animal responsible for this could not be what they would conceive of as having any kind of human emotion. All those present silently uttered a desperate prayer, asking an unseen Power for forgiveness of their own shortcomings and peace for this girl who had met such a grisly fate in this desolate place.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Long Island

  Beyond the rolling lawn that extended some one hundred yards from the patio and pool of her palatial estate, Charlene St. John could see the morning light touch the gentle waters of the Long Island Sound.

  Each day that she awoke here—and lately she had been touring less and staying home more—she rose with a prayer of gratitude for this beautiful gift, this place that provided refuge, peace, and comfort. She loved it here. Yet there was a sadness in her heart that had never been salved and, she feared, never would be.

  Charlene St. John McAvoy’s working-class family slipped into poverty after her father was killed. But her mother had always worked hard to provide for them, and the bond between Charlene and Louise grew strong over the years as they tried to survive on her mother’s meager earnings. The strange premonition of her father’s death weighed on Charlene’s mind, but no other such event had occurred and after a few years she came to the conclusion that it was only the incredible connection to her father that had allowed her to have such knowledge.

  Her childhood had been one of hard work and discipline and Charlene’s only solace during those long years was her love for music, and for singing. By the time she was fifteen, her mother had recognized that her talent was unique, and at
her urging, Charlene entered, and won, the nationally telecast show, Talent Search America. By the time she was eighteen, she had climbed up the music charts to international fame, and she was able to give her mother everything that she had ever been deprived of—security from want, and a lifestyle of comfort and joy. And when Charlene finally decided to embark on her own life as an adult she was able to purchase a fine home that her mother could call her own.

  She had been blessed with an incredible instrument, a voice that could touch hearts across all boundaries. Now thirty-eight, she had sold well over 100 million albums and regularly packed the largest arenas in the world whenever she went out on tour. Even in a music industry beset by revolutions in technology and distribution, she stood head and shoulders above other performers, one of the brightest stars in the entertainment galaxy.

  The public knew her—or thought it did—as the superstar who had been in love, very publicly, with a very different sort of superstar. They also knew that she had lost the love of her life, tragically. They could not know that Charlene felt in her heart that she would never experience true love again in this lifetime.…

  Three years earlier

  It was halftime of the Super Bowl game between the New York Jets and the St. Louis Rams. There were eighty-five thousand people in the stands, and the Jets—who were the underdogs—were leading 17 to 14. The excitement was electric as the football experts, former players and coaches themselves, began to discuss the first half.

  “Clearly, the Jets have been able to run against this vaunted Rams defense, and that has been the key so far,” one of the analysts was saying.

  “But they’re going to have to open up their passing, don’t you think, Tony?”

  “I think we will just have to wait and see what the Jets come up with in the second half,” said Tony as he saw the director motioning for them to wrap up the chatter. The halftime show was about to start. The commentators shut off their mics and started to vent once again about how halftime shows were a complete waste of valuable airtime, and that no one actually watched them.

  The next shot on the JumboTron showed a small woman walking to the center of an immense stage. There were no dancers, no manic band playing, just one singer with a microphone and a lone spotlight. She seemed like a single candle shimmering in the darkness. And then she began to sing.

  I’ve a life to live

  Open up my heart and give

  To someone, somewhere

  I know that we will be together

  Heart touching heart forever

  Someone, somewhere

  The crowd at the stadium, normally restless during halftime, grew quiet and attentive. Those who had left their seats for halftime refreshments paused where they were and looked down at midfield where Charlene, without elaborate stage setting and with no flashing play of laser lights, stood alone—one small woman, holding the souls of over 100 million people with her voice.

  Sports fans all over the country refilled food bowls and complained loudly that the only thing these shows were good for was to get a much-needed bathroom break. But they suddenly stopped when they heard Charlene’s voice. Phone calls were interrupted, curses broke off, yelling quieted. There was something about Charlene’s voice, a unique, haunting quality that crossed all music genres to resonate in the hearts of those who heard it.

  * * *

  When Ryan McAvoy was nineteen years old, he developed a microchip no larger than a dime that could manage and store 1 million gigabytes of information. Now he was a billionaire many times over and considered by the popular magazines that followed such things to be the world’s most eligible bachelor.

  McAvoy was at that fateful Super Bowl game; in fact, he had bought ten thousand tickets, which were distributed to military, police officers, firefighters, and EMS personnel. When he came down from his skybox seat to walk through the section that was occupied by the beneficiaries of his largesse, everyone assumed he was coming to say hello. And that is exactly what he did, until he reached the barrier between the stands and the football field. Once there, he reached under the railing where he had previously taped a long-stemmed blue rose. Then, before anyone could stop him, he vaulted over the railing and walked calmly out onto the field.

  At first the security guards were too shocked to react. They all recognized him, and no one thought that he would be a stalker, or would mean any harm to anyone. But they had a job to do, and several of the guards started after him cautiously. There were several frantic voice exchanges between the security forces and the stadium officials, who feared that this was part of Charlene’s performance and were terrified of a lawsuit. By the time the decision was made to intercept this incredibly famous individual, Ryan had managed to mount the stage, and when they reached him, he was already on one knee in front of Charlene.

  “Excuse me, Mr. McAvoy,” one of the security guards said. “We don’t mean to be rude, but just what are you doing out here?”

  Ryan looked up at Charlene, and there was something in the expression on his face that reached her. Although she had been frightened when he started toward her, now she felt no fear whatsoever. She felt, as she wrote in a song later, a “magic moment.”

  “Please,” Charlene said to the security guards. “Don’t take him away. Let him speak.”

  The guards looked at one another as if trying to decide what to do. The senior guard present shrugged his shoulders and stepped back, giving Ryan his moment, still wondering if this was some sort of elaborate piece of performance art.

  Ryan extended his arms to either side, then sang two lines from her signature song, “Someone, Somewhere”:

  I know that we will be together

  Heart touching heart forever

  “Charlene, my beautiful Charlene, you don’t know me yet, but I am the man you are going to marry. I love you.”

  Ryan had managed to obtain from the show’s producer a lavalier microphone, set to the same frequency as the microphone Charlene was using, so his proposal was heard all over the stadium, and all over the world.

  For a moment, the massive crowd was stunned. Was this part of the show? No, it couldn’t be—and yet, somehow, it seemed so right. They waited to see how Charlene would react to this oh-so-public pronouncement of love. Then, when Ryan stood up and handed her the rose, she took it and held her hand out for him to kiss.

  The crowd cheered and applauded.

  Ryan turned and left the field amid the cheers of the crowd coming from both Jets and Rams fans. He winked and placed his hand to his heart. It reminded her of the same gesture she had made when her dad passed. Eerie and touching.

  The scene of Ryan’s proposal was shown on every news and sports show, not only in America, but also around the world. It had gone on YouTube, and by evening already had well over half a million hits.

  “The Jets won, forty-four to twenty-seven,” one of the beautiful blond cable newscasters said that evening, “but the second half was almost anticlimactic given the event that occurred during the halftime. One can only wonder, what was Ryan McAvoy thinking? And what is Charlene thinking now?”

  * * *

  When Charlene examined the blue rose more closely that evening, she found a slip of blue paper that matched the rose petals so perfectly, she almost didn’t notice it. When she removed the paper and opened it, she found written in gold ink:

  IF YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME, MY CELL NUMBER IS 310-555-0178.

  Charlene laughed, wadded the paper up, and threw it away.

  That night, she awakened at about two in the morning, and she lay in bed for several minutes, unable to go back to sleep.

  What had awakened her?

  Why couldn’t she go back to sleep?

  She relived the halftime incident when Ryan McAvoy came out onto the field. She had not recognized him, and didn’t know who it was until someone told her. She had heard of Ryan McAvoy, of course. Who hadn’t heard of him? He was one of the ten wealthiest men in the world. What could possibly have been goin
g through Ryan McAvoy’s mind to make him do something like that?

  Was he serious? Who did things like that? And just what kind of reaction did he possible hope to get from her by doing such an outrageous thing?

  She fluffed her pillow, turned over, fluffed her pillow again, and turned over again. She looked at the digital clock, and the red glowing numbers said 2:16.

  2:39 …

  3:10 …

  3:27 …

  With a sigh, she sat up and turned on the light. What had she done with that piece of paper that she found in the rose?

  She had thrown it in the trash can.

  Charlene got out of bed and walked into the kitchen area of the suite where she was staying. The coffee grounds had been emptied into the trash can and she had to go through them until she found the paper. It was wet, and coffee-stained, and most of the words were smeared so that she couldn’t read them.

  She couldn’t make out the first few digits, though she was pretty sure that it had been a Los Angeles area code. Taking the paper back into the bedroom, she picked up her cell phone and looked at it.

  “Charlene,” she said aloud, “if you do this, you are as crazy as a loon.” She giggled. “But no crazier than he was for coming out onto the football field in the first place.”