Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (5 page)

The day before the train people were due to arrive, a Muslim couple phoned St. Mary’s requesting to adopt a handicapped child. Their only requirements were that the child be disabled, under the age of ten, and of sound mind. Without question, Samael met the first two requirements.

Forced from his room by the sisters, eager to rid themselves of the little white freak, Samael stood reluctantly in the viewing room waiting to be scorned and humiliated. When the Muslim couple saw the frail, little, white boy, instead of the usual scrunched-up faces and ghastly comments, they smiled. “He’s perfect!” they said.

At the age of nine, Samael had found a home.

Samael grew up in Bridgeview, Illinois, a suburb located fifteen miles southwest of Chicago’s downtown Loop, in the heart of one of the U.S.’s largest Arab communities. He attended an Islamic private school until the 12th grade. Although ostracized by his brown-skinned classmates, his massive size ensured that he was no longer picked on.

Unlike the other children who had been brainwashed in the ways of Islam since birth, the doctrines of Christianity had been hammered into Samael’s mind by the nuns during his formative years at the asylum. But since his days in the asylum, those he’d come in contact with that claimed loyalty to Christianity lived their lives in apathy, indifference, materialism, and godlessness. He saw no unity among the nations who aligned themselves with the Christian faith. Most had sold their souls to the ideologies of political correctness, anti-nationalism, and multiculturalism. The teachings of the Koran were emphatic that apart from being a Muslim, there is no hope for a person. Though Samael favored the religion of Islam over Christianity, his life grew evermore twisted and confused, finding no satisfaction from either.

During his last year of high school, unexplainable paranormal experiences began to torment him day and night: telepathic encounters with disembodied spirits presented themselves in the form of spatially extended systems of energy; apparitional experiences with unrecognizable human figures; dreams of war and death. But most disturbing were the visions of what he believed to be his beloved natural mother.

His adoptive parents had emigrated from Turkey allowing them a dual citizenship. As their legal child, Samael had the same privileges. After graduation, with the blessings of his adoptive parents, he followed a strong inner prompting and headed for Istanbul, Turkey, to discover the city as it was gloriously portrayed by his parents. He stayed with relatives while he traveled and explored. Because of his massive size and strength, manual labor jobs were easily obtainable. He opted to work in the factories, rather than outdoors, due to his sensitivity to light.

Since he first arrived in Istanbul, fourteen years ago, he had searched for answers. He’d found a partial peace within the religion of Islam, but, as with all religions, there was constant strife and confusion: Sunnis and Shiites at war since the birth of the religion in the 7th century; ridiculous traditions and rituals created by power-hungry, religious zealots.

In his pursuit to make sense of a senseless world, Samael became a student of the 13th century Persian mystic Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi whose teachings were neither secular nor religious, but most certainly spiritual.

Rumi’s mystical poetry offered a metaphysical approach to the physical world’s interaction with the intangible—something Samael desperately needed as he struggled to unravel the chaos in his head. Coming to terms with the existence of a nonphysical reality had opened the window to his soul. No longer did he
have
a soul; he
was
a soul. Rumi led him to Sufism—Muslim mysticism—considered by some Muslims to be outside the sphere of Islam.

In February 2002, he’d read an article titled,
Understanding
Your
Dreams
–
The
Secret
to
Your
Past
. The article claimed that through past life regression (PLR) a person could find healing, purpose, and peace by unlocking the secrets of their hidden past lives. The article was written by Usman Ali.

Usman, a computer geek claiming to be a PLR therapist experienced in the use of hypnotherapy to unlock the journey of the soul, had spent most of his young professional life as a tour guide at Topkapi Palace.

In great need of “unlocking” his tormented soul, Samael followed a website link he’d found in the article (www.freedomthroughplr.com), paid the $499 lifetime fee, and signed up for Usman’s online PLR program. After several months of guided online regression therapy with Usman, Samael began to learn of the multiple journeys of his soul into this world—exercises in spiritual purification—each with specific tasks.

Usman’s teachings had opened up for Samael a fresh new love for his past, finally allowing him to explain his strange love for the glorious city of Istanbul: the ruins of the original city walls and their gates; the topography of the land; the salty smell of the sea.

Samael hoped
this
life would be his last, but everything hinged on one remaining task. Success would guarantee him freedom from his tormented and lonely life—including the cursed white body riddled with humiliating flaws. Failure guaranteed him yet another earthly life and the continued recycling of his soul in search of a higher sphere before his ultimate release into the afterlife.

With the direct rays of the sun now hidden behind the hills to the east, he left the balcony and returned to his room. Staring into the mirror, the horrid image of his face angered him. Twisted and tangled, his soul cried out to be released to a higher consciousness. He needed to whirl.

He quickly readied the room by pushing the furniture as close to the walls of the small room as possible. He effortlessly turned the twin beds on their sides and pushed them close against the wall with their mattresses facing out. The small, round, antique, wooden table in the middle of the room, covered with a laced tablecloth and potted plant, were stacked in the recess of the bay window.

Looking around the room, the narrow wardrobe and waist-high dresser were already against the wall. He smiled happily seeing that there would be adequate space to whirl freely without worry of hitting something.

The hard, wooden floors would be perfect against the slick, leather bottom of his boot to allow for a near frictionless spin. But, first, he needed to move the area rug. He rolled it tight and placed it across the tops of the beds standing on their sides against the wall.

Excellent
.

He paused when he noticed the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. Standing beneath it, he raised his hands to check the clearance. He could touch the fixture if he extended his hands straight up, but he doubted he would extend them directly above his head at any time during his whirling meditation. The ten-foot ceilings of the old building proved to be adequate to keep the light fixture clear of his whirling hands as long as they stayed at the normal forty-five degree angle, or less.

The last thing was to close the drapes. Everything looked ready. He didn’t want anything to interfere once he started whirling.

He had learned about the practice of whirling while attending an Islamic prayer service. When he first tried it, within the first five turns, he became dizzily sick. He was encouraged to keep trying and reminded that success with the ritual would only be realized when he learned how to release his mind from his body; stop thinking.

“Quiet the mind, and relocate your center,” he was told. “The dizziness will disappear once you reach a trance-like state.” After much practice and persistence, he became quite good, hardly ever feeling dizzy.

With the room cleared and ready, he removed a small, cassette tape player from his suitcase and inserted a tape. Pressing the play button, he positioned the speaker of the player toward the center of the room. Traditional Turkish melodies, with hundreds of scales from instruments such as the end-blown flute, the trapezoidal, plucked zither, different types of lutes, and kettledrums, filled the room.

He then began to dress while the music set the mood. Each piece of clothing carried a significant, symbolic meaning. The tennure, with its long white skirt, represented the death shroud. He slipped this on first.

On top of the white skirt, he wore a voluminous, black cloak with long, large sleeves, symbolizing the tomb or grave.

The last item was a tall, cylinder-shaped hat made of camel’s felt representing a tombstone. At first glance, it might resemble an oversized Shriner’s fez, a brimless version of the tall, red and white striped hat worn by the cat in Dr. Seuss’
The
Cat
in
the
Hat
, or possibly an alternative look for Marge Simpson’s tall, blue hair on
The
Simpsons
.

The Turkish music played while he stood in his whirling costume in a prayerful state repeating, “Allah, Allah, Allah.” His hands were crossed onto his shoulders with his erect posture representing the number one, testifying to Allah’s unity.

Prior to starting, he removed his black robe revealing his white robe beneath, symbolizing a release of his soul that lives within and beyond this life.

With his left foot fixed, as a point of contact with the Earth through which divine blessings and understanding could flow, he was ready to begin. Using his right foot to spin his large, white body around, he began to turn slowly at first, in short twists, in an anticlockwise direction.

The fundamental condition of everything—every object, every being—is to revolve, from the smallest particles of matter to the incomprehensible vastness of the stars in the galaxies, everything takes part in revolving. Soon he knew he would unite with the universe that was always spinning around him, and in him; planets around their axis, planets around the sun, and the cloud of electron shells spinning around their atoms, always seeking balance.

The shared similarity of all created things is the revolution of the electrons, protons, and neutrons within the atoms that constitute their basic structure. By whirling, he would participate consciously in the shared revolution of all existence. He would become whole for as long as he whirled.

Like a bird taking flight, his white-sleeved arms unfolded and rose out and above his shoulders. The right hand opened to the skies in prayer, ready to receive Allah’s beneficence. The left hand, turned toward the Earth in a gesture of bestowal.

“I take wing and fly, turning round and round, burning up my pride. Am I a moth in flight? Allah, Allah, Allah.”

His eyes remained open but unfocused while staring into space, smiling peacefully. His head tilted back against his shoulder.

After a fifteen minute period of slow rotation, he gradually began to push harder with his right foot, building the speed up over the next thirty minutes. Spinning faster, the room blurred into a swirling whirlpool of colors. The rhythmic rotation and incessant music created a synthesis which induced a feeling of soaring, of ecstasy, of mystical flight, and of union—his soul with the universe.

Practice had taught him how to work through the dizziness much like a sailor learns to accommodate seasickness. His white skirt billowed and his soul soared. For a time when the world around him appeared to be fractured, he felt connected and freed from his white prison.

Soon he would be whirling so fast he would not be able to remain upright. His body would fall. The fall would not be made consciously nor would he attempt to arrange the landing in advance.

Knowing that the fall was inevitable, he had turned the beds up against the wall with the mattresses facing out toward the center of the room. This precaution had been made to avoid the possibility of striking his head against the pointed feet of the bed’s metal frame. Other items in the room had also been placed in such a way that there were no sharp corners to hit in the fall. He knew the Earth would absorb his energy.

Less experienced whirlers might opt to end the whirling meditation by slowing down rather than falling. Having been whirling for an hour or so, he knew the slowing process could take ten minutes or more. In addition, choosing to slow rather than fall would spoil the second part of the meditation process—the unwhirling.

After the fall, he would roll onto his stomach immediately putting his navel in contact with the Earth, like a small child pressed to his mother’s breasts. Keeping his eyes closed, he would then remain passive and silent for at least fifteen minutes letting his body blend into the Earth.

Spinning now at top speed within a vortex of peace, his face was flushed red. Sweat streamed from every pore in his body.

As expected, his body fell to the floor uncontrollably, like a massive skyscraper implodes within its footprint under the careful execution of a demolitionist. His large, white body lay spread out on the floor, face down and motionless.

As his soul slowly rejoined his body and the two blended back with the Earth, he felt the sobering reality of where he was, who he was, and what he had to do. Once his mission was complete, his soul would be rewarded with freedom and union with his beloved mother.

Rumi’s teachings and Usman’s PLR therapy had freed Samael from the physical and released him into a dimension not bound by time and space. Not only had he uncovered the hidden riches within his internal confusion, he’d found a structure of meaning and purpose for the existence of his current life.

Tonight, for the first time, he would meet Usman Ali.

CHAPTER 5

Fort
Rosecrans
National
Cemetery
,
San
Diego

Sunday
,
May
25
,
2003

Under a canopy of clear, blue sky, overlooking the San Diego Bay and the Pacific below, peaceful winds laced with the taste of salt, rushed up surrounding cliffs, whispering through the branches of easterly bent pines. Uniform white grave markers, glistening in the sun, dotted the carpet of rolling green lawns. The tranquil and somber setting was the shrine for thousands of brave men and women who fought to their deaths while attempting to rid the world of monsters.