The Eagle and the Rose (22 page)
O
Our case book ends with this last story, which tells how, once again, those in the spirit world can give us specific and constructive help. Like John and Sue Harrison and so many others, Kathryn and Christian Langton were shown a clear path … a path they chose to follow.
I first met Kathryn Langton, a nurse who works at the Doncaster Royal Infirmary in the north of England, when she and her mother came to me for a consultation. The main purpose for their visit was to make a communication link with Kathryn's father. He had passed very suddenly and without warning, with a massive heart attack, as he informed me when we managed to form the link.
Kathryn was delighted, thrilled to hear from her father. She was also surprised and pleased when I discovered, through Grey Eagle, that she possessed the gift of healing.
She began classes with me to develop her gift, and it was during one class that Kathryn received yet another message from my guide. But this time the message was not for her, but for her husband, Christian Langton. It was a small yet significant piece of information concerning a lost member of his family, and he had to do a little investigating before he discovered that this lady did indeed exist.
Being very stubborn, and not wanting to give up years of scientific thinking, Christian was reluctant to come to me for a sitting. Yet he felt he needed to talk to me. So I was invited to the Langtons’ house for tea.
After being bombarded with dozens of questions, some that I could answer, many I couldn't, my host was more confused than ever. His thinking was black and white; mine varied shades and colors. His questions were based on scientific law; my answers were based on knowledge, through experience, of another dimension to life. He was getting nowhere.
Help eventually came in the form of Christian's grandfather, who, having passed to the spirit world some years earlier, had been awaiting his opportunity.
It was fascinating for me, and astounding for Christian, to witness the barriers of science, the barriers that separate our two worlds, slowly disintegrate. The evidence of another world, another life, mounted increasingly, until it would have been ridiculous, even for a stubborn scientist, to dismiss the evidence of his own ears. The evidence of a life after death.
But it didn't stop there.
It was not enough for Christian's grandfather to prove his existence after death. He also wanted to show his grandson that he could still be involved in the things that went on in this world and that he could help with problems if allowed.
Christian Langton is a research scientist and was, at the time of this impromptu sitting, working on a project involving bone analysis. He had designed and built a machine, called an Ultrasonic Bone Analyzer, which is able to detect osteoporosis. Osteoporosis is a disease that results from loss of estrogen at menopause, causing fracture of the hip, spine, and wrist, and affects one in four women. By using Christian's machine, doctors could detect and treat this condition before it became a problem.
The idea of measuring bone, using the ankle bone, with ultrasonic sound waves, was a good one, and Christian knew it could work. But his machine, which when his grandfather described it looked to me like a goldfish tank, was still at the testing stage, and there were problems. All the tests so far had failed to produce consistent satisfactory results. After much consideration and many sleepless nights, Christian became convinced that the only thing that could be wrong was the angle of the footrest inside the tank.
Now I've mentioned that the machine looked to me like a goldfish tank, clear Perspex, half filled with water.
Naturally, as I described this thing to Christian, his interest sharpened, and amazement showed on his face as I informed him that his grandfather knew of the difficulties he was having.
“Well,” he replied dryly, “perhaps the old boy would be good enough to help me solve them.” Of course, in saying this, Christian didn't really expect that his grandfather would really oblige.
But he did.
“Tell him”—he chuckled delightedly—”that he's barking up the wrong tree. The angle of the footrest is fine, it's the water that's the problem.” And he went on to explain how to put it right. Talking in technical terms I didn't understand, but Christian did, he basically said by removing the water and placing the ultrasonic transducers directly against the skin, the problem would be solved. Christian, hearing this wondered what he was going to say to his colleagues in explanation of the new changes to his project. How could he show them, in a scientific way, that he had reached these conclusions? … Could he simply say, “Well, you see, my grandfather told me.”
Less than a week later, Christian Langton had corrected the faults on his Ultrasonic Bone Analyzer, following his grandfather's instructions to the letter, and you can now find these machines being used in hospitals in Europe, Australia, Canada, Japan and many other countries throughout the world.
It is often pointed out, by those who know no better, that the information mediums supply through spirit is trivial and useless. Christian Langton, a scientist of international renown, a very astute and free-thinking man, would, I know, disagree. And so, wholeheartedly, would I.
It may well be that with time Christian could have solved his problems his own way. But as a medium I feel great satisfaction in knowing that I was used as the instrument that brought together our scientific world and the spirit world, for the greater good of humankind. I know that this is an area that has as yet remained basically untapped, but I feel certain that as more and more people become aware of the scope and range of information that mediums can connect into, and as confidence in spirit communication grows, which it will, then the link between manmade science and natural science and scientists will, in turn, grow ever stronger.
The Power Expanded
S
o much water had gone under the bridge. My life was now so changed. No longer afraid. No longer timid and shy. My life was more stable, more secure. Grey Eagle had taught me many things, my confidence had grown … and I was growing stronger.
I had come to Cyprus with my daughter, Samantha, and my boyfriend at that time, and it was the first holiday we had all been on together. The year was 1983.
We had saved like mad and had rented a comfortable three-bedroom flat for four weeks. Four weeks of glorious sunshine, wonderful Greek food, my favorite, and rest, lots and lots of rest.
We had spent the day on the beach, just lazing around, swimming in the sea, and watching some Greek divers catching octopus.
Driving home, we decided to stop at one of the many restaurants dotted along the roadside and get something to eat. Sitting in the shade of the olive trees with a long cold drink in my hand, I gazed around at the small tables with their brightly colored umbrellas and admired the lovely tropical plants in the gardens.
The sky was blue and cloudless, the air fresh and clean. For the first time in over three years I was truly relaxed. Not worrying, not working, not even thinking. Just sipping my drink and waiting patiently for my dinner, and if the tantalizing smell coming from the direction of the restaurant was anything to go by, the food was going to taste delicious.
King prawns in a mild garlic sauce, followed by lamb kebabs, Greek salad, and some home-baked crusty bread. And to finish, a huge bowl of strawberries piled high with fresh cream. Gorgeous! Now a good brandy would be an ideal way to finish this excellent meal.
We paid the bill and were just about to leave when the waitress approached our table. Pulling out a chair, she unceremoniously plonked herself down.
“Ah, that's better”—she sighed—”I can rest for a while, until the next rush, that is.” And she began chatting with us. She talked about how she and her husband had come over from America and set up in business. Then, looking at me, she asked, “Do you work?”
Quietly I answered: “Yes, I'm a medium.”
“Well!” she exclaimed. “How interesting, and what a coincidence that we have met. You see, a good friend of mine, who lives in a small village not far from here, is a healer.”
I was immediately interested and began asking all sorts of questions. What was his name? What did he do for a living? And where did he live?
His name, our waitress told us, was John Mikaledes, he lived in the small village of Spitali, and he earned his living as a water diviner.
This last piece of information intrigued me more than ever, and I asked, “Do you think it would be possible for us to meet this man?”
Our newfound friend smiled and assured us that all we needed to do was to find his village. “Anyone who lives there will know him,” she said, “and providing you find him at home, he will, I'm sure, be delighted to see you.”
She drew us a map and explained how we could get to Spitali, a tiny place in the foothills of the Troodos mountains.
It seemed an easy enough place to get to, even though on the map the roads did look a bit narrow. It was also quite far away, which reminded us of an important detail. What if, after traveling for miles through seemingly barren country, the gentleman we were seeking wasn't at home? Would we have wasted a journey?
But I had got the bit between my teeth, so the following Sunday we set off on our search.
As we drove it seemed that we were slowly leaving civilization behind us, and we went farther and farther into the back of beyond.
After driving for miles and miles on a hot and dusty road, we finally came to a sign that read “Spitali Village.” We drove slowly down the deserted main street—or should I say, more correctly, the only street—looking for signs of life.
Suddenly the road widened, and we found ourselves in the small village square, which was also deserted … except, that is, for a solitary figure. A tall slim man, standing alone in the middle of the square, waiting, it seemed. But for what? Surely no buses or any public transport came through this tiny place.
He didn't move as the car approached him, and I expected Gordon to stop, but instead we drove straight past him. Then I heard myself say, “That's him. That's the man we're looking for. That man is John Mikaledes.”
For a second or two Gordon looked at me as if he thought the heat had gone to my head. “Don't be silly,” he scoffed. “He's not standing there waiting for us to arrive when he didn't even know we were coming.”
But even as he was saying this, he realized that I was right, so he turned the car around and back into the square we went.
The man we had passed only moments before was still there, waiting.
Gordon pulled the car up alongside him, and leaning out of the window, he said very tentatively: “We are looking for a man by the name of John Mikaledes.”
The man leaned toward the car, and looking past Gordon straight at me, he smiled and in perfect English replied: “I am he, I am John Mikaledes, and I think I must be waiting for you,” and, turning on his heel, he said, “Follow me.”
He led us to a small white bungalow that stood on the outskirts of the village on top of a cliff. The view was magnificent and the air pure and clean. It was heaven to get out of the car, stretch our legs, and take in the picture of this beautiful little paradise set in the middle of nowhere.
A small plump lady in her mid-fifties came bustling out of the house to welcome us, and before we knew it we were sitting in a neat little room, drinking freshly squeezed orange juice, ice cold and delicious, and helping ourselves to juicy-looking chunks of watermelon that Maria, John's wife, had placed on the coffee table in front of us.
When we were well and truly settled, with John and Maria Mikaledes sitting opposite us, John asked, “How did you come to be here, and how or what can I do to help you?” Chuckling, he then added, “Perhaps you could also explain how it was that I have walked four miles to work today, and when I got there I heard a voice insisting that I must come home again, and stand and wait in the village square.”
He continued telling us that he had been water divining that morning on a piece of land that was, hopefully, to become building land.
“I do it all the time,” he said, “and if I find water, which I often do, I get paid.”
He went on, telling us how, with his divining rods, he had been looking in a specific area, when suddenly he heard a voice.
“Go back to Spitali. Go back home. Go back now.”
At first his reaction was to ignore the voice because he felt he was close to discovering the water he had walked all the way to find. But then the voice came again, more insistent than ever: “Go back to Spitali. Go home and wait.”
So, putting his rods back in his work bag, he turned and walked the four miles back to his village and eventually found himself standing, a little bemused, in the middle of the village square. And just as he had begun to wonder what on earth he was doing, coming home at that hour of the day with no work done and apparently for no reason, he saw our car approach, and he heard a stranger's voice asking: “How can we find John Mikaledes?”
We had a wonderful afternoon with John and Maria. They told us how they had met and married in England after the war, and John told us how he had become involved with the spiritualist church. It was then that he'd discovered that he was a natural healer and begun to practice his healing gifts.
“But do you know, Rosemary,” he said, “although I was an active member of the church for years and did a great deal as a healer, maybe there was one message from a medium that was at all relevant to me?”
I then explained to John and Maria that I was a medium, and I asked John if he would like a consultation with me.
Maria laughed and said: “That's just what he's been hoping you would say.” So the two of us went into the kitchen, while Maria took Samantha and Gordon on a tour of their small estate.
I began the sitting, finding it easy and relaxed, and my newfound colleague sat, tears streaming down his face, as I gave him first one message, then another, and another. All from the one person he had been waiting to hear from for over twenty years—his mother.