Fallen Masters (27 page)

IRA looked at him. “Do you understand the concept now?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Good. Are you ready?”

“I am.”

POTUS realized that he was actually looking forward to it, even to the scene at the end where he would watch himself get shot.

“Once you thoroughly embrace the concept, you won’t need the remote. You can go anywhere within your lifetime quite easily; in fact, you will discover that you can go anywhere in the history of the world. And, as I told you, time is a ribbon so everything that has ever happened is still happening. That means you can move forward or backwards at will.”

“What about going into the future?” POTUS asked.

“We can proceed forward along the line of probable events based on today’s actions, but there is a problem with that, in that the timeline comes to an end in the not-too-distant future.”

“You mean they are right? All these crazy ‘end-of-the-world kooks,’ who spout off the doomsday scenarios, the third secret of Fatima, the Y2K, and the Mayan 2012 conspiracies?”

“You didn’t really just call the entire Mayan people crazy, did you, sir?”

“What? You mean the 2012 thing isn’t just a kooky idea? It has to be. It’s past 2012, and we are still here, aren’t we?”

“Yes, and no. Clearly, the date is not 2012, and quite sincerely, we don’t know the actual date, because so much depends on the acceleration of the negative tsunami of energy blanketing your world. We can’t see the end, as the negative forces want that edge. That is why so many are going back.”

“Going back? Wait a minute, you mean reincarnation is real?”

“Sir, oh … all these questions … it is almost not fair that I am only one packet of conscious energy, and yet they want me to assist one of the greatest minds ever to incarnate.”

POTUS felt himself beaming and flattered at IRA’s remark. He let himself embrace the ego of IRA’s statement. “IRA, are you telling me that I am seen here as one of the greatest minds?”

Suddenly the Governor of the Council of Elders appeared before them. “No,” he said in a voice that showed his irritation. “You were seen as one of the greatest minds there, though I’m not sure I know why. Here, you have to participate in your own transition and learning. God has a plan for all of us, and he needs your help.”

The Governor was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

“I wish he wouldn’t do that!” POTUS said.

“Yes, sir, that is quite annoying to me as well, the way he just pops up like that. Now, where were we? I lost my train of—”

“We were talking about reincarnation,” POTUS said.

“No,
you
were talking about reincarnation. Now, please pay attention. There is much to do and I don’t have all eternity.” IRA laughed then, a cackling, high-pitched, and discordant laugh. “Actually, I do have all eternity, but I would rather not spend it acting as a guide to your Walt Disney Dead World experience. So, may we just focus on your funeral, sir?”

When POTUS didn’t respond, IRA heaved a big sigh.

“Hit the button, sir,” he said. “Hit the button.”

CHAPTER

49

When POTUS returned to the funeral, he focused on his son. Marcus Jr. was holding back his tears and trying to be strong. POTUS thought he was a perfect blend of his mother and himself. Marcus had beautiful eyes with just the suggestion of an epicanthic fold, light brown with gold specks that complemented his light brown skin.

Like his father, young Marcus kept his hair cropped close to his head. POTUS had never allowed it to grow into a full Afro. This was a personal choice that became a professional mandate. It was nice to know that America had come so far as to elect a black man who was married to a Vietnamese woman to the office of President of the United States. Yet, here IRA and his seemingly vast army were ready to march onto Earth to battle the bad guys.

Could it be that this whole thing was no more than a weird hallucinatory dream? Could it be that he wasn’t dead at all, that someone had just slipped him something at a cocktail party?

“Sir, would you keep this moving, please?” IRA said irritably. “Having to follow your thoughts has become tedious, almost beyond endurance. Eternity, sir. Eternity?”

Metaphorically “hitting the pause button” on his life remote, everything stopped. POTUS moved closer to Marcus, and as he did so, he could feel his pain. Everything in his being wanted to take the pain away from his son.

“No,” IRA said, reading POTUS’s emotional response, even before he formulated the thought.

“What would it hurt to assuage his grief?” POTUS asked.

“Do you think there is any emotion without cause or consequence? Grief is planting seeds in the garden of his life, and it could help inspire him to be great. You will have the opportunity to help him, though.”

“How? When?”

“Now,” IRA said. With that one word, they were no longer in the garden. Instead, they were in Marcus’s bedroom, and Marcus was asleep. This moving back and forth on the ribbon of time no longer surprised POTUS, and it seemed as natural as breathing to have gone within the blink of an eye from a beautiful sunny afternoon to the middle of night. The darkness of the bedroom was illuminated only by the green glowing digits of the clock—
2:23
—and the blue light of the TV satellite box.

“You can communicate with him now,” IRA said.

“How?”

“By joining him in his sleep. All you have to do is think about him and it will be like tuning in to a radio frequency.”

POTUS found it almost ridiculously easy to do as IRA suggested. He thought of his son, and the next thing he knew he was walking toward the back part of the three-level brick manor house that was their private home in Savannah, Georgia. It was midafternoon, and the lawn had just been cut. The gardens were in full bloom with a myriad of flowers of all sizes and types. They exploded in a profusion of color, their scent perfuming the air.

POTUS heard the bouncing of a basketball on the cement pad that had been poured alongside the house, and he projected himself there in time to see Marcus make a long jump shot, his right arm extended as the ball started its arc, his hand pointing as if willing the ball to get all net. It swished through cleanly.

“A three-pointer,” POTUS said. “Impressive.”

As he hoped would happen, when the boy turned toward him, POTUS felt an explosion of energy from his son. “Daddeeeeeeeeeee! Is this real? Are you here, or are you a ghost? It doesn’t matter, I see you, that makes you real to me. I love you, Daddy. I love you.”

“How is your mom doing, son? I miss her so much.”

“I guess she’s doing okay.” It was difficult for the fifteen-year-old to process that he was talking to his dad, let alone answer questions. But he pulled together all his strength and concentration, for he sensed this was a unique moment.

“And how about Charley?”

“Uncle Charley is really sad. Everyone is sad—Mama and me the most, then Uncle Charley. Can I still call him uncle? I mean, I know he isn’t my real uncle, but now that you are gone, can I still call him uncle?”

“Yes, of course you can.”

“Miss St. John came to sing at your funeral. And the writer that I like? Dawson Rask? He sent me an autographed book.”

“You are going to have to be very grown up now, Marcus. You are the man of the house.”

“That’s what Mama says. Daddy, how is it that we are talking, but there aren’t any words being spoken?”

“It is because this is a conversation between our souls.”

“Does that mean this isn’t real?”

“How does it feel to you?”

“It feels real.”

“Then it is real.”

“Is it real enough that I can give you a hug?”

POTUS looked over toward IRA, who had been hanging to one side, watching with complete dispassion. IRA nodded yes.

“What are you looking at?” Marcus asked. “Is someone there? Someone that I can’t see?”

“Can you see me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all that matters. Do you still want the hug?”

POTUS opened his arms and his son came to him, filling his arms like a hand filling a glove. POTUS sensed that the connection between them wasn’t actually physical, but the embrace was one of the most powerful feelings he had ever experienced.

Marcus pulled away from him, and when he looked up, POTUS could see tears streaming down his son’s cheeks. They were also streaming down POTUS’s right arm. That didn’t upset him as much as perplex him.

“IRA, how could—?”

IRA interrupted his question. “Later, sir. Be in the moment. We will have to leave soon.”

Marcus looked to see whom POTUS was speaking to, but could not see IRA. “There is someone else here, isn’t there? Who is here?”

“It doesn’t matter. Marcus, I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell your mama that I came to you and that I am okay. I just have some things to take care of, and when I do, I will come back. Can you do that for me, son?”

“Yes, Daddy, I can. Daddy … Can I help you? Do you need me?”

“No! Absolutely not!” IRA blurted out.

By now POTUS was beginning to realize that while IRA was his guide, the adviser wasn’t his superior. So he responded to his son as he wanted to, without regard to IRA’s negativity.

“Marcus, I will always need your help. I need you to tell your mama that I am all right. Remember, I will be with you—and the family—remember what I always told you. When you miss me…”

In a ritual they had followed when POTUS was alive, each of them put their hands over their hearts, pointed to each other, then put their hands over their hearts again. By doing this, they were saying that no matter where the other went, their hearts would always be together.

“Tell him you need to go now,” IRA said. IRA’s voice was completely unmoved.

“Marcus, I need to go now,” POTUS said to his son. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Daddy. I love you, and I miss you so much.”

In an instant, Marcus was gone. So were the flowers, the lawn, the house, and the beautiful day. POTUS and IRA were in a sort of void, which was something new for Marcus.

“Stop thinking of him,” IRA said. “You are creating a confusing conflux of energy.”

“IRA, how is it that you are so devoid of compassion?” Marcus asked.

“I have work to do,” IRA said. “There is no room for what humans call sentiment. On this side, what you would call the Other Side, there is no attachment to ego.”

Did that leave no room for individuality in the spirit realm? Or was ego a burden for human beings on Earth? POTUS had never reflected on this notion before … had never been called upon to do so or felt the need within himself. In this place, all kinds of ideas were bombarding him, like questions at a press conference. But he had fewer answers here than he ever did in the White House. In fact, he was equipped with far less knowledge for the situation in which he found himself than he had been since kindergarten. The thought amused him—but just for a brief moment.

CHAPTER

50

Grenada

Mama G brewed herself a cup of tea, sweetened it with a bit of honey, then sat in her rocking chair and picked up her remote to turn on the TV. She could see the carriage being drawn through the streets, a flag-draped coffin on the back. The crowd was absolutely quiet, the only sound being the muffled drums, the hollow clop of the horses’ hooves, and the ring of the steel-rimmed wheels rolling on the pavement. The carriage was being drawn by six white horses with three soldiers mounted on each of the three nigh horses and was flanked by marching members of the military—army, air force, marine corps, and navy. One soldier was leading a saddled but riderless horse with a pair of boots reversed in the stirrups.

“The riderless horse you see behind the caisson is named Sergeant York for the famous hero of the First World War. The same magnificent horse was used for President Ronald Reagan’s funeral in 2004,” the announcer said in a quiet and somber voice.

The camera moved in for a close-up of the front row of spectators, found an old man with tears sliding down his cheeks, and held that picture for a long moment before moving out to follow the caisson.

Mama G was watching the funeral on television; then the picture, the TV, the room itself faded out, and she found herself watching the tender scene between the president and his son. She watched the entire thing knowing exactly what she was seeing, and not questioning what it was or how she got here.

“We needed him,” a voice said. “The world needs him.”

“Yes, he was a wonderful man and a fine president. It is a shame that he was assassinated,” Mama G answered.

“It was necessary.”

Now Mama G was confused.

“What was necessary?”

“It was necessary that he be assassinated. We needed him.”

“Are you saying it was all part of the plan that he be assassinated? That this wasn’t just some insane act?”

No answer.

Mama G wondered where the universal plans ended and individual actions—good or evil—began.

Whatever psychic, cosmic connection Mama G was enjoying was broken, and once again she found herself sitting in her rocking chair, watching the images of the President’s funeral play out on her television screen.

Europa, Belgium

He was proud that he was not a native Belgian, but an Austrian. It made him kind of exotic to people in the small town in the far western Flemish region where he had lived for the past ten years. His name was simple, spelled the way he preferred it: Hans Smit. He was a man without a country but with an idea. He would make them all sit up and take notice. Soon.

The children. He would take the children. The parents were corrupt and soft. They had chosen the easy way, but Hans Smit had chosen the
right
way.

On the outside, he smiled and was unfailingly polite.

He worked at a café next door to the bus and train station that saw daily traffic to and from the city and the countryside. Hans stood behind the counter and served coffee and ran the cash register. One day he counted over five hundred transactions. Somebody was certainly making money on this deal—but not him.