Designed with a Destiny (31 page)

“You really believe that’s possible—don’t
you?” Natalie asks, her bright green eyes studying him as she
nibbles on a tortilla chip. He smiles warmly.

“The power of thought is one of the most
underutilized weapons ever known to man. I’ve been in contact with
Kenneth Williams and he’s alerted peace-creating experts from all
over the world who will be joining together in transcendental
consciousness to assist us.” Everyone stares at him blankly and he
takes a final sip of water before excusing himself. “Please take
your time, and when you’re finished, I’d like you to join me for my
evening meditation. It’ll make much more sense if I show you rather
than tell you.”

***

Rosie is beside herself with worry over us
going to Mexico City. She even went as far as having the shuttle
van mechanically disabled by one of the ranch hands in an attempt
to keep us on the ranch.

“At least leave the girl. She’s so young and
beautiful, and innocent,” she says, trying to hold Claire back from
getting in the van.

“Nothing’s going to happen to us, Rosie—I
promise,” I reassure her for the umpteenth time. Ronan gently pries
Claire from her grasp, and she quickly removes her colorful scarf
to drape it over Claire’s head, covering her long blonde hair in an
attempt to make her less conspicuous. Claire looks less than
pleased by the donation.

“You don’t know how dangerous it is. Gangs
control the city and they have weapons. How do you expect to defend
yourselves against groups of militants that government officials
are even afraid of?” Rosie argues, even after we’re loaded in the
van and closing the door.

“We’ll be back before dinner,” Ronan says,
speaking confidently on behalf of everyone—Designer and
Non-Designer alike. Ronan would say Rosie has a right to experience
worry and fear, but I can’t see the poor lady being tormented
throughout the day so I reach my hand out the window and touch her
arm, influencing her with thoughts of peace and tranquility, right
before we drive away. Ronan has a bemused smirk on his face when I
look over at him but doesn’t say a word, instead slipping his arm
around my shoulder and pulling me close. In a van with thirteen
people and no air conditioner, what felt like a beautiful eighty
degree day quickly becomes warm and uncomfortable, and it isn’t
long before every window in the van is open, in spite of the dust
being kicked up from the dirt road.

***

No one pays much attention to the white van
that we pass on a stretch of highway that averages one car going
either direction about every ten minutes or so. There isn’t much in
the way of services between the ranch and the city, but every once
in a while from out of nowhere a small wood shack appears barely
twenty feet from the road, and the occupants race outside as soon
as they hear the sound of a car, in the hopes of persuading people
to stop. They sell a variety of goods along the roadside, ranging
from turquoise jewelry, clothing, handmade rugs, and even car
tires. It’s difficult to pass by without stopping, especially
seeing the desperation on the faces of families who rely heavily on
the few tourists that happen by.

“Please can we stop at this one?” Claire
begs Jason when she spots a little girl her age leading a goat
around like a dog.

“Oh come on—just for ten minutes honey?”
Alisha smiles, convincing him to pull over.

“Alright, ten minutes and then we need to
get back on the road,” he says, putting the van in park. Claire
heads straight for the little girl, bypassing a trunk full of
handmade toys, while the rest of the women in the group head for
the jewelry stand.

“My names Claire,” she boldly introduces
herself in Spanish, while leaning down to pet the goat that the
girl is trying hard to hold back with a thin, frayed piece of
twine.

“Sometimes he bites,” she replies
hesitantly, glancing over at a heavy-set woman as if seeking
guidance in how to stop Claire who ignores the warning and sits on
the ground, allowing the curious goat to practically climb in her
lap. It’s a delicate balance for the Mexican woman who could lose a
sale in either case—an unhappy child being told hands off or an
unhappy child crying from a goat bite. I do my best to reassure her
that she has nothing to worry about—even as the goat appears close
to nibbling a test piece of Claire’s golden curly hair. The sound
of an approaching car causes enough of a distraction that I’m not
forced to call Claire back to the car. We all watch with curiosity
as the white van we passed earlier pulls in going way too fast,
sending a cloud of dust in the air when the driver slams on the
brakes. The minute he steps out of the vehicle, the woman calls to
the girl to go inside, and then she follows, not even bothering to
take the twenty-dollar bill Natalie is trying to give her for the
turquoise necklace. Even without a color screening of gray, he
looks dangerous and unopposed to violence. It’s obvious that he
didn’t stop to purchase souvenirs and I instinctively prepare for
the inevitable confrontation by taking a moment to center or ground
myself using the technique that Lawrence taught to us just last
night.

“
A group is unloading from the back and
they’re armed,”
Ronan calmly announces telepathically and
within seconds they appear—quietly from either side of the van—like
a pride of lions ready to ambush a herd of deer. All of them are
males, mid to late twenties, wearing headbands, shirtless with
bodies covered in tattoos, boldly brandishing their weapons. Claire
pats the goat on the head one last time, and nonchalantly backs up
toward the rest of us, never taking her eyes off of them. They scan
our group as if personally picking out their targets, their eyes
full of lust as they linger upon the women in the group—even
Claire. One makes a jerking off gesture and yelps, causing his
cohorts to enthusiastically nod in agreement.

“Remember your purpose,” Lawrence reminds
us, as Ronan’s whole body tenses reflexively.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” Ronan calls out
in perfect Spanish, breaking our silence with a declaration that
leaves no room for misunderstanding. The group erupts with laughter
and the driver gives a signal with his hand. Suddenly a shot is
fired from someone in the group. Claire lets out a bloodcurdling
scream as the goat falls dead to the ground, a stream of red blood
pouring from the hole in its side. The brutal act is meant to shock
and terrify us, but the distant muffled, heart-wrenching sob of the
girl inside the shack elicits an opposite reaction—especially from
Claire. She snarls and hisses, allowing the natural feline traits
to take over as she leaps for the hood of our van, crouching low on
all fours. She directs a powerful and purposeful burst of energy
that throws the shooter down to the ground, pinning him helplessly
next to the dead goat, while the rest of us work to disarm the
others. Weapons are telekinetically plucked from their hands and
tumble through the air, landing in a pile. By the time they realize
we’re much more than a group of pretty tourists the battle is
already decided. Their attempts to escape are futile—every single
one of them is lifted from the ground, their feet moving wildly, as
they hang suspended like puppets six inches off the ground. We
satisfy Lawrence’s criteria for peaceful encounters—terrifying them
nonetheless. Ronan strolls forward, snatching a colorful rug
hanging from one of the display racks, and uses it to drape over
the dead animal in a show of respect. He then walks over to the
airborne leader, and yanks him to the ground, twisting his arm
behind his back as he towers over him by almost a foot.

“After today you’re never going to harm
another human being or animal—do you understand me?” Ronan growls
in Spanish. The guy stares up at him, not answering, then pulls his
head back and spits, splattering saliva across Ronan’s cheek. I
groan and Alisha mumbles “Dude—what the hell.” I rush over ready to
intercede, fearing for a spontaneous and not so pretty retaliation
by the man who has the strength of a gorilla—literally.

“If you do that again, I’ll snap your neck
with my bare hands,” Ronan simply says, surprising me with the
amount of calm and pleasantry carried in the threat. He uses the
sleeve of his shirt to wipe the slobber from his cheek, then points
to Lawrence. “Do you see that gentleman over there? He insists
there’s a better way than violence—so for the time being you’re
safe.” Lawrence’s steel gray eyes beam with pride as he nods with
approval.

“I’ll take it from here,” I say winking at
the man I happen to be lucky enough to call my husband. He catches
my eye and murmurs, “Not without me.”

“We’ll help her—you’ll make him too
nervous,” Elizabeth says quickly coming forward to help. Natalie
follows, nudging Ronan out of the way as she moves between the two
of us. Our captive appears sufficiently bewildered as the three of
us lead him away, making our way to the back of the house where
beyond a small fenced yard, nothing but acres of manzanita and
barrel cactus can be seen. Lawrence’s teaching last night covered
the final pieces of science theory on how energy and thoughts work
to move us in to higher dimensional states of consciousness. He
claims that most humans exist in a third dimensional state where
beliefs are rigid and restricted—the vibratory rate consistent with
hate, greed, fear and judgement. Designers have a bridge to the
fifth realm simply because we vibrate in resonance with it—by
default through DNA engineering. Every other human that’s
experienced this state of consciousness has done so through
diligent and complete mastery over thought—choosing unconditional
love in every circumstance—every time until they’ve assimilated
sufficient light to hold the vibratory rate without being dragged
back down. Thus far, we haven’t had to work that hard, but last
night, Lawrence made it clear that our free ticket to the fifth
realm was expiring, and like him and anyone else who’s ascended,
we’d be required to put forth effort to maintain our current
vibratory signature.

I calmly give Diego—the leader of a
notoriously, ruthless gang—the scientific explanation of how we use
our minds to manipulate energy, and ask him if it’s something he’d
like to learn. At first he pretends to be insulted, calling us a
bunch of witch bitches, among other insulting names, but like any
dangerous criminal quickly begins to consider the advantage and
unlimited power he’d have with such a skill. The temptation of
greed overrides any superstitious beliefs he’s acquired, and he
eagerly concedes to working with us. With Natalie and Liz
assisting, we change his color screening from gray to white within
a few minutes. The impact of jumping to a higher vibrational
frequency has the same emotional effect as it did with others we’ve
worked on, and none of us are surprised when he fights back tears
of emotion. I let him know that it’s his responsibility to sustain
his newly acquired vibratory pattern and he seems eager to adopt
new habits, especially when we honor his request and give him one
last demonstration of our telekinetic gifts.

“Diego, it’s easiest to see this energy
field in nature and people—focus on the cactus,” I whisper in his
ear, echoing the instructions Lawrence gave to me the first time.
Ronan would hate the fact that I’m so close to him but I can’t help
myself. Seeing energy for the first time is an indescribable
feeling, and I’m as invested in Diego’s success as I would be
anyone.

“Light pink,” he says after several uneasy
moments, not sounding completely sure until the three of us erupt
with cheers. An hour later, eight of his gang have achieved the
same heightened state of consciousness, successfully seeing the
energy fields emanating from the landscape. Two refuse to work with
us at all, clearly terrified by what they consider satanic rituals,
a complete oxymoron given their former acts of murder and rape. The
time spent is well worth it when Diego and his boys haul the dead
goat away and pay the girl’s mother ten times its value.

***

The streets are blocked and people have
already gathered at the city’s central Zócalo plaza when we arrive.
“At least turn your diamond around,” Ronan says, twisting my
wedding ring so that the diamond is facing towards my palm. He
wants me to remove it altogether but for sentimental reasons only,
I can’t bring myself to take it off. He grips my left hand in his,
making sure to keep it hidden as our party splits up into
pre-determined groups, heading off in different directions. Diego
and his members confirmed that today’s attendees were going to be
the target of an attack—a massacre to punish women who were bold
enough to stand up for their rights. Lawrence says it was no
coincidence that we passed them on the highway before stopping at
the roadside vendor.

“Your subconscious thoughts set in motion
the natural laws of physics which attracted today’s circumstances,”
he announced, contradicting Bernie’s claims of pure divine
intervention. The two debated the issue for over an hour during the
remainder of the car ride here. Now, they’re walking hand in hand
ahead of us as we make our way toward the east side of plaza where
the most radical women protesters are gathered carrying pickets
signs with pictures of prior female victims.

“Policemen next to the stage are gray,”
Claire announces, pointing in their direction. “And so are the
group of guys standing near the flag pole. From her perch on top of
Chord’s shoulders, she has an advantageous view of the entire plaza
and she’s scouting out anyone with a color screening of gray.

“Chord, make her sit down!” I scold when she
stands on his shoulders to get a better look at something,
increasing her prominence tenfold. She managed to leave the scarf
given to her by Rosie in the car, and now her long golden blonde
hair and creamy white skin makes her stand out like a beacon.
People are starting to gawk and point. Noncitizens are prohibited
from participating in protests, so it doesn’t surprise me when she
says that the policemen are headed in our direction.