The Journey (2 page)

Apparently, we were poor—had it pretty hard at times, they say. But I never knew it. I never felt denied. I never went without. I never wanted for anything, not that I can remember. If we had times of need, my parents never let on. I didn’t have a clue they ever had a worry in the world. To me… we weren’t poor, ever. I remember, even as a small child, feeling blessed. Blessed with everything I ever needed, especially love. Did my parents ever tell me no? Yes, of course. Did I get everything I ever asked for? Not by a long shot. Did they ever spank me? Are you kidding? I got my legs switched more times than I can count… but not nearly as many times as I needed. As I said before, I felt blessed. Life was good.

When I left for college, I took my little bubble I’d been raised in right along with me… and found my first taste of what the world was
really
like. At least bits of it, anyway.

College is this amazing place where people of all upbringings, all races, all nationalities are brought together and mixed into the same pot—eating together, working together, living in the same room… the same home. It can be wildly incredible and exceedingly dark, all in the same breath. At Lincoln Memorial University I met my very first Wiccan, my very first Japanese person, and I even heard a real honest-to-goodness Australian accent with my very own ears. It was amazing!

I quickly made friends from all over the world. In the first week alone, I ate lunch with some guys from Saudi Arabia, sat between two Swedish boys in Lit 100, and became best friends with a girl from Guatemala who couldn’t even pronounce the J in my first name. I was fascinated beyond being able to close my eyes at bedtime.

College was also the place where I saw my very first live,
grown
boy
, real fight… the first time I’d ever met a guy who didn’t know who Cain and Able were… and it was also the place where I heard my very first derogatory racial comment.

So, within my first week of higher education, I became educated in a way I had never expected, never wanted. I remember not even knowing what was going on. Not truly. I asked a boy standing next to me to enlighten me. Reece was from Harlan, Kentucky and had the clearest, prettiest blue eyes I’d ever seen. He laughed through his traumatizing explanation of what we’d just heard, then yanked on my hair before walking off, still laughing. In that instant, tears filled my eyes like burning lava. My heart ached with a sympathetic pain the likes of which I had never known. And in that same heartbeat, the fairytale bubble that encompassed my whole world… burst.

Sitting here now… I
still
remember how that felt, the bitter taste it left in the back of my throat. Hatred—unjustified, unfounded hatred. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, ever heard. It tore away my bliss, caused my idyllic little world of peace and harmony to come crashing down around me. Out of all the things I have forgotten—and there have been many—
that
was one scene that burnt its disgusting image in my mind forever. No matter my years on this Earth or the many places I have roamed… I’ll always remember the burning fire in the brown eyes of a boy I didn’t know, yelling words I didn’t understand, at an infuriated young man from a place I’d never even visited. I carry it with me still—a dark spot on my psyche, a black cloud in my mind, an unyielding scar across my soul.

Could someone actually
hate
me for no reason other than the color of my skin? The unimaginable answer… was yes.

What could have happened to that brown-eyed boy from Kentucky to make him feel those horrible feelings? What trauma caused the green-eyed boy from the other side of the world to say such wretched things? Their revulsion one for the other was mirrored in every possible way. Why? How could this happen? What were they taught? What did they see—did they hear—that made them carry such hate around inside such a young heart? I couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t fathom such a thing. Did their parents teach them that? Surely not. How could they? They were
parents
—people tasked with raising these young men, leading them. There was no way such ugly things were taught to children by their loving parents. Was there? I myself had only just met my very first
non-white
person that same week. Heck, I’d even met my very first
non-Christian
person that same week. I was fascinated, elated. I thought this big wide world to be an amazing place! How was it then that those two boys… how was it
their
view of the world could be so utterly skewed from mine?

I called my dad that night—told him what had happened, between sobs. No matter how that gentle father of mine tried to explain how some people are… I simply couldn’t understand it, couldn’t comprehend it.

Didn’t these people go to church? Ever? Had they never read the Bible? Not a single word? Didn’t they even have a drop of just plain old commonsense? The soul doesn’t have a color, doesn’t claim a race or a nationality. How can a person not know this? How could seemingly intelligent people who had made it all the way to college not know something as important as that? We aren’t our skin. We
wear
our skin, same as we wear our clothes. It can’t define us any more than our socks can. Who
are
these people? What’s wrong with them?

As I said, that rancid scene has never left me. Perhaps because I did not understand it, could not comprehend it… still can’t.

If you are reading this now and you cannot understand
my
take on the whole soul–body thing, I would say you should walk a day in my shoes. Alas, I would not wish my current fate on any other human. I have learned to live with my task. It’s what I know. It’s who I am. It’s how I live. I wouldn’t
suggest
it, no… not unless you are one who can walk a tedious dark line, without falling into the abyss. There are scarce few who can, and even less who
want
to. Yet, it is not a choice. It is what it is. It is my life. The same way you wake up every morning and walk into your office building, or your classroom, or your workplace… I walk into the Nether, and reemerge only God knows where.

Tonight, well… tonight I sit within the darkened cavernous tomb of France’s many dead. Why? I am waiting. Waiting for Paltiel to stroll through these tainted catacombs. I know he has been here recently. I can still smell him. His unmistakable scent turns my stomach, yes. Yet I smell him, all the same.

What is it that I do? Well… I guess you could say I’m a record-keeper, of sorts. A bit of a historian, a dash of a seer, and just a smidgeon of a writer all rolled into one. I witness, interrupt, and try my adequate best to explain. Alas, I fall far short of my peers.

You may not know it but, this world is old, older than we had first imagined. It stands not as a solid sphere. Not by a long shot. There are multiple layers to it, crests upon crests. There is a layer—not too far down from the surface we now know—where the Grey Ones live. Ugh… I shudder just
thinking
about them. That’s all I’m going to say about that layer. As you get closer to the planet’s core, there live things far older than memory, far older than when time first started being kept. Does that make them evil, bad, terrifying? No… just ancient, ancient and tired. They are as we are—good and bad, light and dark. The main difference? Their time has long since passed.
We
are the creatures now walking in the sun.

I am definitely not special, not
chosen
or any such nonsense. I am as you are, just an average human. I possess no special talent that you yourself do not possess. Anyone can do what I do.
If
they allow it to be so. My mission comes from within. If you choose to ignore your inner voice, then so be it. Alas,
I
cannot.

I love to read. I am a voracious reader, always have been. My home boasts more books than my local library. I am a hoarder of knowledge, little known facts, and all things ancient. My journey through life has been a historical one. Meaning, I was a History Professor. It just sounds so
bland
when you say it that way, I like to add a bit of color and excitement.

Now, if you have ever studied ancient history, delved headfirst into the heart of it, then you have most certainly found yourself in some dark and dusty rooms surrounded by books and scrolls filled with dead languages and cultural superstitions. And
that’s
where I was when my
new
path was laid out before me.

My sinuses were packed with ages old dust, and who knows what else. My eyes were burning from the constant strain and inadequate light. My poor old shoulders were fast becoming acquainted to the hunched-over position I had been in for hours, and I would have killed for an icy cold cola—in a frosted glass.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I squeezed my eyes shut and just let my mind go numb with silence… a few quiet moments away from the words swirling around in my head. As I released a long breath and slowly opened my weary eyes, something caught my attention. It didn’t register at first, just a dark place beside my hand on the pages of that ancient, human skin-bound book. Then, it moved. It was only a tiny movement, just enough to pull my full attention. A spider—big as my palm—just sitting there staring at me. I
slammed
that giant book shut, barely getting my hand out of the way. Whatever knowledge yet remained within that aged tome, will not be discovered by
me
. In truth, the spider probably wasn’t as big as I made it out to be. But at the time, it was as terrifyingly large as you can possibly imagine. At least it seemed that way to my poor old racing heart. I felt like it was ready to burst within me.

Needless to say, I ran out of that Temple and all the way down the front steps before I ever quit screaming. When Brother Gopal realized I wasn’t actually injured, only terrified, he had a good laugh at my expense. I didn’t mind. I was away from the giant spider from hell, that’s all that mattered.

After I’d gotten a cool drink of water and calmed myself down, Brother Gopal led me out into the massive courtyard. He didn’t say a word, only smiled as he sat down and started meditating. I took a deep breath before plopping down beside him, smiling at the gentle sound of his relaxing hums. Being around the monks calmed me, always. I popped the bones in my neck and took another deep breath, trying to wash the world from my mind.

In that bliss-filled moment, I had
no
idea
how much my life was about to change.

I’m still not certain if it was the ebbing rush of adrenaline—or simply the fact that I was already mentally exhausted—but a sudden calming silence fell over me… drained everything else away.

I lay there atop the soft grass, staring up at the passing clouds, listening to this gentle monk’s calming chant. I didn’t even realize I’d closed my eyes, had no idea I’d drifted off to sleep… until I heard the lamenting moans all around me.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Then… I realized even my
worst
nightmares were never this terrifying.

The sky around me was orange—glowing and strange. Much the way it looks when a hailstorm blows through the Tennessee Mountains—unsettling, eerie. You know something wicked is coming, you just don’t know
how
wicked. Not until it hits.

The dry wind blew hot, smoothing out the painful little goosebumps covering my arms. The air was as harsh and biting as I remember Tucson being that forgotten summer so many years ago. It parched my throat, dried out my flaring nostrils. The temperature rose with the breeze, but there was no sun. No, this wasn’t Arizona. I was fast beginning to understand… it was no place upon this Earth.

I tried to call out, but I had no voice. I turned to Brother Gopal, but he was nowhere to be found. I was alone… lost and alone and beyond terrified. My only company was the disembodied wails echoing loudly within my throbbing head, sending tremors down to the depths of my quivering soul.

I would have cried—buckets full, I tell you. Yet, I could not. The heated air robbed me of all moisture, dried me up like a brittle autumn leaf.

When panic took me to the precipice of sanity, when my racing heart sped to bursting in my chest, I felt a sharp tug upon my wrist.

My next breath was filling and cold and blessedly moist. I was sitting in the middle of an empty pasture. Rain was falling soft and cold, soaking through my clothes, dripping from my curls.

I couldn’t see the animals, but I could
smell
them—wet wool, urinated mud, sodden fresh manure.

“This way.”

A gentle voice beckoned me.

I turned to see only a departing cloak—long enough to sweep across the clover grass—disappearing over the crest of the hill. I slowly followed, scanning the fertile outlay. Yet, I knew not this place. It looked much like my childhood home, yes, but the smells— Ahh, the smells were
completely
different. This wasn’t Tennessee, no. Nor was it Tibet—where I had only just been sitting a few moments ago—but it was definitely Earth. I took great comfort in that. I had no idea where I’d just been, but I was positive I never wanted to go back. I shivered at the very thought.

I’d walked quite a ways before my hooded guide came back into view. Although I couldn’t always see him, I knew which way to go. I could smell him.