The Left Path Puppeteer

Aleister Crowley.

There, I did it. I wrote the name of the man whom J.K Rowling, whether she knows it or not, based her Lord Voldemort upon. The original, and very real “He Who Shall Not Be Named.”

Even saying his name is enough to invoke his attention and ample enticement to draw his energy into your field.

Founder of the Order of Thelema and expelled from the Masonic Order of the Golden Dawn, for treading and leading others down the Left Path. Hiis deeds were so notorious newspapers furnished him with the irreverent title, “The World’s Most Wicked Man.”

He’s not someone you would necessarily wish to invoke. For this reason, and others I won't get into here, I henceforth refer to him simply as “A.C”.

Yes, I know there will be some who scoff at this, who will dismiss my caution as “fear based” modus operandi. Hopefully such minded people will entertain me and view the following with an open mind.

To understand what happened, I have to go back a couple of years to a young and very talented Code Keeper, Hannah, giving her first speech to an assembled group of spiritualists in Sydney.

The subject was the channeling of Light Codes. As Hannah spoke a rather large code she had commissioned from me was viewed by the assemblage. As such, afterward I was keen to learn of how the event transpired. I had only been drawing codes for a couple of months and was already getting exposure and was very thankful and excited for Hannah.

Hannah reported that it was great, except for one member in the audience who persisted in interrupting by injecting “A.C” by name and laying some claim that the Light Codes had something to do with him.

The limited knowledge I had gleaned of “A.C” was enough to send a deep chill down my spine.

At the time, I hypothesized the individual at the seminar had been trying to invoke “A.C”’s presence, or at the very least his energy to be bound to Hannah and/or our work.

It left a shadow lingering in the back of my mind. A state of readiness, where I watched events around my own Light Code work with some trepidation.

Even though I enthusiastically participated in Hannah's Keepers of the Codes Facebook Group, part of me knew something wasn't right

So I watched. Waited.

Then, just as I was letting my guard down and chastising myself for my concerns, I saw it.

Hannah had recently returned from a trip to the UK, Mr “A.C"'s old stomping ground. Instead of following Hannah's adventures abroad I disengaged somewhat. There was something about her Live videos that pushed me away.

I tried to ignore the feeling, but that little voice in the back of my head just wouldn't let it go.

Shortly after her return a member of the KotC announced they were removing their codes from the group on intuitive advice.

I reviewed the comments and saw repeated insistence from other members that there was no need to do so. The wording such that I felt there were subtle attempts to shame him for his decision. This was not the usual type of commentary I had come to expect from this loving and accepting digital community.

It was a complete disregard of this gentleman’s “free will”, which set off my Left Path alarm bells.

On the spur of the moment, I reached out to both the group and Hannah and was greeted with the image of a throng of people behind which stood an ominous shadow. Long tentacles trailed back from members of the throng into the outstretched fingers of this presence, like an army of marionettes at the end of their puppet master’s strings.

The Shadow turned its attention my way and loomed forward, rushing to close the distance with me and I immediately let the image go.

I didn’t know what this thing was, but Hannah’s words detailing the strange man at the seminar came flooding back.

Upon reflection of my disengagement of Hannah's trip to the UK and the tapering of my interest in the KotC, I knew something had attached to her whilst she had been there.

My only way of contacting her was through Facebook Messenger, but each time I completed the warning and hit “send” all text disappeared. It simply vanished.

I sent “test” messages to other people on the app, all of which went through with no problem, but each time I attempted to contact Hannah the result was the same - the text was replaced with a blank screen and a solitary flashing curser. It was futile. My fingers hovered over my phone screen as I ran through my options.

How was I going to warn her without garnering further attention from this entity.

I ended up posting a somewhat obscure message in The Alchemists’ Lounge. I spoke of the experience without mentioning names - hoping Hannah would see it and put two and two together.

I then went through an energy clearing process, under the guidance of my wife, which saw the removal of numerous etheric cords that appeared as black pulsating veins. These were in my back, the back of my head, my legs and my groin. It took a couple of goes to clear it all, with my spiritual mentor even reaching out through our facebook group to advise of cords we had missed and advised to stay clear of the source.

After the separation of these conduits during the guided meditation, I watched them slither back into the fingers of the puppeteer, which presented itself as a giant, grotesque parody of a Gremlin. It leered at me as the last of the threads sucked back into its thumb. There was no malice, just bemusement and mocking contempt. Then it withdrew.

To my relief, a couple of weeks later Hannah posted that she had received assistance from a healer to clear a negative force that had attached to her whilst in England.

Though the storm seemed to have passed, something lingered in the back of my mind. Something told me that this was not over. So I neglected to rejoin the group until I could ascertain whether it was all clear - meaning that I was clear of any negative attachments so as not to further corrupt the group that this entity seemed intent on feeding upon.

What I didn't expect was that things were about to get much worse.

A couple of weeks later I took my family to see “The House With A Clock In Its Wall.” It was a great movie that the kids enjoyed immensely. But there’s no doubt that, there is subliminal messaging hidden within the dark imagery of this movie for, as I fell asleep that night, I slipped into dark dreams of the like I hope to never experience again ….

In the series of flashing images I saw a woman coupled with me. She wore a hooded cloak and nothing more as she drew a ceremonial dagger across her lactating breast and pulled my head in to suckle from mingling blood and milk. She then pushed me back, pricked my chest and did likewise. I felt no fear and greeted what happened next with certainty that I would be reborn as she raised the dagger and drove it into my chest.

The images shifted to me standing over a fair haired woman on an altar. At the opposite end, another man was thrusting into her to the beat of drums sounding beyond the darkness surrounding us. I will not recreate the scene beyond saying it was dark sex magick that resulted in the same priestess as my previous vision appearing with her ceremonial dagger again. The scene ended with both the priestess and I helping the woman on the altar guid the steel into her own heart.

I watched the woman’s hand go limp and fall away.

My eyes flew open, my heart in throat while I blinked back the darkness in search of the ceiling fan. Focusing on the fan is one of the fastest means I have to ground in the moment.

The shock quickly passed, but a disturbing acknowledgment of my lack of horror remained in its wake.

I cannot recall whether I spoke of the dream the following morning, whilst Sara and I shared our daily dream experiences and analysis. It was perplexing and something I wished to put behind me.

I told myself I had more to worry about than bizzare dreams, such as my first breathwork seminar to prepare for. So I headed to work, trying to ignore the dread settling over me.

As part of my Breathwork Seminar I planned to lead two guided meditations. This was a first for me so I felt the need to do some research during downtime at work.

After downloading a short PDF on Meditation I found myself reading a “Hand Guide to Sex Magick”. I was but  pages in and my eyes roving casually over the text when a stranger's voice started echoing that those words in my mind. The author's repeated references and insistence that an exchange in bodily fluids is essential for potency etc brought my nightmare to the fore.

But the voice dismissed my concerns and I failed to appreciate the implications.

I finished the text and hit the download button, which returned me to the gallery of books my search had lead me to. That's when I realised I was on a download page for all of “A.C”’s published works.

Ordinarily, I would have closed it and deleted my browser history. But that day, I found myself presenting all manner of excuses to proceed.

“There is no such thing as duality. You are just operating from a place of fear.”

“Energy is energy, it is all the same. Who am I to judge it with my own Catholic heritage skewed notions of morality?”

“It’s just a bunch of books, there might actually be something in here you can use.”

By the end of my shift, I had downloaded the entire library of AC’s works and started reading his book on meditation.

It made sense to me. The parallels between what I read in those digital pages and what I had learned in the martial arts world aligned far better than what I had previously seen in other spirituality books.

In short, his words “spoke” to me in more ways than one, as did other … furtive whispers in the back of my mind.

Not only did they speak to me, they stopped me from speaking to others.

I became withdrawn. Silent at the dinner table, unless directly engaged in conversation. Even my view of the world became distant, as though I had taken a step back in my mind, distancing myself from my field of vision.

The need to get back to the meditation book constantly niggled at me, but so to did the need to keep its nature secret.

The paranoia was overwhelming.

Over the next three days I became increasingly obsessed with reading and taking notes on meditation from his text. Every time Sara asked me what I was reading, I would hear a voice in my head whisper.

“Keep it secret.”

So I did.

I replied with half truths such as, “Oh, just a book on meditation,” and then diverted the conversation onto the actual topic I was reading about, such as “I am just learning about Asana.”

Part of me knew there was something gravely wrong here. It shouted warning from afar, but it was muffled and easily muted. I even began to WANT to shut it out, but it persisted - thankfully.

I started journaling my experience in the hope that there may just be something there on revision that would snap me out of this bizarre state of mind.

By the third day I had become extremely distant from my family and found it difficult to talk about even the smallest aspects of the topic I was reading. Unless speaking directly of the principles of that I was more than willing to impart with others. But each time the subject of source came up I heard those words.

“Keep it secret,” and a ball of phlegm would form in my throat, choking out any sound until I changed the subject entirely.

On the afternoon of that third day, I found myself seated, alone, outside a local bakery, stuffing my face with a pie, a vanilla slice and a large flavoured milk. All of which were prohibited foods, that I had not eaten for many months.

I felt like a ship's sail, tattered and shredded, blowing on a sinister etheric wind.

I scoffed down the junk food like an ice addict hastening for a fix, as I contemplated how I could purchase a large leather bound book. I had the inkling to literally recreate “A.C”’s works from start to finish in a single complete handwritten volume. A true Necronomicon styled tome.

It was at the moment, while I planned where to hide my new masterpiece, that I had a flash of clarity.

I dropped what remained of the vanilla slice and milk in a bin and raced to the nearest tattoo shop, organising to have a series of runes tattooed on my hand. It was something I designed some months ago as a ward against negative energies.

I think it was pretty clear to the tattooist that there was a level of desperation in me, so he finished of his day warding my hand.

As soon as the tattooing process began I felt some of the fog clear and by the following day I was able to openly speak with Sara about it.

Even then part of me was minimising what had happened and convinced me she would brush it off as something trivial. The whole, “There is no such thing as dark forces,” lie people tell themselves?

Her words were the final nail in the coffin, the driving hammer whose knocking reverberated into my very being and snapped me wide awake.

“What were you thinking? You don’t know what intent he put into those words. You don't know what is hidden.”

Once again, we cut cords and I even managed to delete the books from my Google Drive.

I felt better, but still not 100%.

It’s been a couple of weeks now and I have the weight lifted from my shoulders for the first time in what seems an eternity, thanks to all the work of my VERY understanding and wonderful Sara and a potent Kinesiology session that involved extensive work on releasing “A.C” and his influences as well as demonic energies that lingered and still influenced my crown chakra.

I sit here one day post the kinesiology session my Crown and all along my spine feels raw and sunburned. It's uncomfortable enough to remind me that this was very real.

As to whether the experience with the Facebook group and the most recent events are directly related, I cannot say. But the fact that AC has played a dominant part in both is surely no coincidence.

If there has been anything that has come from this experience it is this -  I cannot warn people enough NOT to open the pages of ANYTHING written by AC. No matter how innocuous the topic may seem, or whether you simply do not believe in the Left Path. No matter how “high vibe” you may be, it simply is not worth it.

As I hold in my hand the very verse used in the kinesiology session that cleared the final strands of influence, I see my path finally clear before me.

A career in Demonology awaits. But I need to up my defensive practices to avoid once again becoming a marionette on the strings off a Left Path Puppeteer.

Portals (part 1)

I pulled the covers up under my chin and watched my moonlit breath escape in a misted sigh.

That was odd. Even in my half sleep state I knew that it wasn’t supposed to be a particularly cold night. It was March in Brisbane after all. First month of Autumn. And I was alone in the old farmhouse with my kids at their mother’s and my partner on a retreat in Guatemala.

Worse still. Rising moisture in that old house had forced me out of the master bedroom to sleep on a mattress on the livingroom floor.

I stirred, rousing myself into a more lucid state. The air bit at my cheeks with icy teeth.

I shuddered and let another stream of mist blast out over me.

Then I heard it.

A soft shuffle of feet and a sigh to echo my own.

Like a seven year old child, I peered out over the covers to the entry way from the hall. Ordinarily, with the moon this bright, I should’ve been able to see across the small hallway intersection to the white door of my daughter’s bedroom.

But not that night.

Instead, a dark silhouette filled the archway with a darkness that spilled back blacking out the rest of the hall. My breath caught in my throat.

The fighter in me insisted I leap off the mattress and attack this intruder, but my instinct held me in check. This was no normal intruder.

It stood there, watching. Its malintent seething forth in a tide of putrescence making my skin crawl.

When my partner left for Guatemala she had told me that if I ever experienced anything untoward to just tell it to go away and leave me alone. That it wasn’t welcome. In those moments as I peeked out from under the covers those words seemed somewhat dismissive. But short of calling for a priest with an African dig site, they were all I could think of.

“Get out! You aren’t welcome here!” My voice was strong, unwavering and commanding. I felt conviction and powerful facing this rising fear. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but what happened next was not what I had been hoping for.

The shadow moved. Puffed up. And the room was filled with thunderous foot steps as it rushed forward to stand over me. I had time to draw in a gasp of breath before it pressed down on me with a silent scream. I closed my eyes, but its pale face was still there. Its yawning maw about to consume me.

Then it withdrew. The weight upon my shoulders lifted and it was back in the hallway. Only now I could see the ghostly smudge of white that was its face lurking just beyond the moonlight. Not knowing what else to do I did something I had not done since I left private school. I recited the Lord’s prayer and Hail Mary over and over, projecting my voice with conviction as I sat up.

It chuckled.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Staring at each other as a pair of adversaries across a battlefield. But it wasn’t until Mitchel, our rooster, crowed that I realised the sky was lightening to the deep blue of predawn.

Slowly, I toppled over onto the pillows and fell asleep.

The Emperor's New Cloak

We dodge our way through the throng of shoppers like a dance through a china shop. I can feel my client getting agitated and he's ready to explode.

His shoulders stoop lower than usual. Simmering fury glares up from beneath a furrowed brow.

Shifts with him are draining. I get to the end of ten hours feeling like I’ve done twenty. Managing the anger of someone with so many triggers is a fine balancing act.

I tip toe along a taut cable, over a chasm of angst and rage.

This isn't good. Not here. Not in such a crowded place. The tightrope begins to wobble. The china on the shelves are about to topple.

I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder and almost snatch it back. Not because of his reaction or any flinch response on my behalf.

No. In the instant my palm falls upon his pullover, I see a flash that makes my head swoon.

The light shoots down my arm, directly into his chest and is swallowed by a churning vortex. A black hole of emotion, seething with a need to consume all around it. 

My stride falters.

I marvel at this obscure event and instinctively let the current rise into a tsunami that crashes down and closes the rift instantly.

My client relaxes. His head rises and a soft smile touches his lips.

I let my hand drop away and feel the force of a prime mover smash into me. It’s time to get him seated in the cinemas so I can recover….

Opening up to spirituality has had numerous unexpected benefits. One that made the biggest difference to me, as a mental health worker, was learning how to cloak my energy from the unwitting energy vampires I work with.

The process is relatively simple, but like all “simple” processes you can make it as complicated as you like. I find that the more intricate I make the process, the more focused I become.

The greater the end result.

My cloaking started with the suggestion that I imagine I am enclosed in a mirrored bubble. The bubble’s surface reflecting any low vibrations back onto the person they emanate from.

But invariably, what works for one person doesn't necessarily work for another.

Every time I envisioned the bubble, it would morph into a composite armour with mirrored plates. Those dynamic mirrors would move around me to meet each etheric challenge as it was presented.

Whilst effective for a time, it was too labour intensive. Required too much focus and if my attention wavered in the slightest, all effort would come undone.

There had to be a better way.

It was during a kinesiology session that I was instructed in, what would eventually become, my “go to” defence.

The energetic cloak.

The essence is to imagine a cloak draping over you. The purpose of this energetic field is to shield you from low vibration energy and indeed help you become less noticeable (as I will explain in a later post).

Your cloak can be made of anything you desire. Be it fire, water, earth, smoke, cloth.

Anything!

My mentor in this had several, one of which was chainmail, and all sounded extremely cool.

When starting out, it doesn't really matter what it's made of. What's important is to establish the cloak and a seamless routine of donning it.

As long as it covers your entire body and you can envision it clearly, then you are off to a good start.

The routine that I was first instructed in was as follows:

-   Imagine yourself going to a wardrobe
-  Open its doors
-  See you cloak hanging there in all its splendor 
-  Take the cloak out
-  Examine it, noticing the details and any decorations you have used
-  Drape it over you
-  Feel your energy push out against it and close any gaps
-  Feel the confidence and security it gives you
-  Have faith that it works

With practice it will become instinctive.

These days my cloaking process is short. It simply flows over body, expands from the outward pressure of my light.

My energy activates runes and light codes in its surface.  These differ depending on the circumstances.

If, like me, you still need people to feel your light, then develop a cloak that permits such. Just remember it also needs to allow the energy of the universe IN, to replenish that which you let out or you will end up depleted.

Have some creative fun and I’d love to hear how you go.

The Fascination of Light Codes

What are these “Codes” you are doing?

First of all a simple summary of what Light Codes actually are. They are the physical representation of sacred geometries, sound waves, energy patterns, light patterns, frequencies and colour emitted from the very fabric of Creation - that is including but definitely not limited to our 3D world. They manifest as sigils, glyphs, runes, line work and colour blends.

Light Codes are recognised by Spiritualists and Occultists the world over and have been used/recorded since we were dropped on this wondrous mud ball hurtling through space and time.

How does it work and what does it do?

Due to the very nature of Light Codes they activate parts of our “higher” mind. Indeed our subconscious not only acknowledges them, but understands their meaning. Think of it like a segment of the Matrix as it’s plugged into your head - your own code is being updated. Does that mean you’ll become a Kung Fu master after viewing a particular code? Maybe, I’ve been playing guitar for two weeks now and smashed out the rhythm of Zeppelin's “Kashmir” just by ear the other day after doing some code work. So who knows?

During my experimentation with Light Codes I have found that I have been able to draw on them with “intent”. That is I sit down with pen and paper, meditate on the recipient of these codes and let my hands do the work. I don’t premeditate any pattern. What comes through, comes through there and then. The resulting code is often what you NEED at that time, not necessarily what your heart desires.

Can these codes magically make me rich?

While I haven’t tried to use them to win the Lotto, I did channel a code when my partner was waiting on a wire transfer of funds from the US. Said funds were projected to take several days to be drawn and then several more to be transferred and cleared. I set the intention to speed the process along with this particular code, as the best scenario we were looking at was 6 business days. Upon completion of the code I sent it to her and before I could explain what it was she replied, saying that the funds had been drawn. Not only that, but the funds were transferred and cleared by the next business day.  But this was for money already in motion. So can it make you rich? I will let you know when I pay cash for my first Lamborghini.

I think the better question would be, will they help make you feel more complete. To which I answer with an emphatically “YES”.

Bottom line is the codes, at least as I have discovered thus far, are more about energetic and spiritual alignment. That is, alignment with your higher purpose. But that being said, if you are aligned then the 3D novelties will come to you faster. The negative energy, the muck that weighs you down, has been cleared from your path to success.

The Second Son

It’s a crisp Saturday afternoon in June when I find myself climbing from my truck into a quiet Brisbane suburban street. The sun barely takes the edge off the air and I hesitate long enough to pull my hoody on before venturing up the driveway of the nondescript house.

The place is so inconspicuous that had I not been told to keep an eye out for the white Toyota in the drive I’d have driven straight past it. In fact I did drive past to make a u-turn, but even then I caught myself wondering whether I had the right place. It’s odd.

I am looking at the house.

I can SEE the house.

But it’s like it doesn’t WANT me to see.

I scoot around the Toyota and rap chilled knuckles on the screen door. Beyond the threshold I see the collapsible massage table draped sheets and pillows. So this is where the magick happens, I muse.

My percussion driven enquiry is replied to with an enthusiastic head popping around the corner from an adjacent room.

“Just a sec,” she says before disappearing again to the scrape of a chair across the floor. “Did you find it ok? Most people drive past.” She sweeps into the room and lets me in

Smaller and younger than I imagined, Cass introduces herself and leads me to her dining table, catching my lingering gaze at the massage table as we leave it behind.

“Take a seat, I don’t really do much kinesiology with adults, it’s more intuitive healing. We have a chat, Identify the problem and then guide you back to the source, usually something from a past life. But if we need to get you on the table we can.”

“No, that’s cool. I’ve had kinesiology before and it was awesome, but I am always open to a new experience.”

We chat a bit more as Cass explains her method and what I should expect. “Some people freak when confronted with the core problem, so I just don’t want you to be surprised if emotions start running away.”

“Oh, I’m pretty attuned to what’s holding me back at the moment, that being said I am open to whatever we find. Have a very open mind.”

“Ok, cool.” She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. I do likewise as she instructs me to get comfortable. Only seconds pass before she starts talking.

“You have a strong sense of not being good enough. You know you can do things,  but you let this feeling hold you back from stepping into your power.”

“Yep, that resonates,” I reply. “I have this sort of discussion with my partner all the time. What’s she told you about me?” I laugh.

“Nothing in this regard,” she smiles. “We haven’t been conspiring.”

I open my eyes as Cass shifts in her seat. “Ok, now I am going to walk you through a guided meditation. We’re going to go back to the lifetime that is the source of this feeling. Are you ready?”

“Go for it.”

I close my eyes and sink down into the chair, my head lolling to one side until my chin drops down onto my chest.

Her words are hypnotic. I have come here just for that, so I have allowed myself to be hypnotised.

Images flash before my eyes as I follow her instructions.

Rapid fire scenes of people throughout the world in their day to day lives. The scenes pause long enough for a blonde to look back over her shoulder and laugh at me. Then on again in a cascade of revelry and tears as the spectrum of human existence unfurls before my eyes

“Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring.” …

Her words sweep me away. Hers, not Stoker’s. And yet there is some credence to the reference, for after leading me into this state she breaks off from the guidance.

“I see an opulent chamber. It’s somewhere in the 1400’s.”

Well it’s 1447, actually and this is an Ottoman solar. I catch myself. Where the fuck did that come from?

“Oh wow, you are a crowned prince, 18 or 19, around that age.”

A prince I may be, but this isn’t my home. I see myself, dressed in Ottoman refinery with my jet black hair freshly combed, standing before a young Turk much the same age as me. But there is little of pleasantness that passes between us.

I notice I am tenderly rubbing at the raw manacle marks on my wrists. To my right my younger brother sits amongst cushions, dressed and made up like some harem whore.

The sight of him alone is enough to set my blood boiling.

“You are readying to petition your father for permission to marry, but know that such a request will be difficult.” She pauses, trying to lever the information from unwilling currents. “It’s difficult and frowned upon to marry a low born woman.”

Even more so when she’s a lowborn Turk and the only reason you are doing it is to get out of this God forsaken land.

“But you are dealt a blow when you are informed your father has been killed. You aren’t ready for this. You can’t fathom that the mantel should fall to you. This isn’t how it is supposed to be. You aren’t ready for this. How can you be?”

No. Because if I am in line for the throne, it means my older brother has been slain too. I know of no current wars. Yes the political games play out behind tightly monitored borders and in the bed chambers of sycophant boyars, but open battle?

No.

That means they have been murdered.

Betrayed.

She pulls me from the scene and I doubt whether she realises I was so embedded. That I knew what was unfurling before her words slipped past her lips.

She guides me further through halls and stairways, common imagery in many guided meditations, yet with her own flavour of delivery.

At the foot of a long flight of stairs I come to a blue door. Cass instructs me to open it.

But there’s more to this than she has articulated, for seated at a desk beside the door is a bearded man. His dark fringe splits in disarray to reveal amber eyes peering out from golden flesh. In one hand he holds a quill and in the other a single sheet of parchment.

He regards me for a moment, drops the sheet and holds out his hand with an impatient gesture. I blink and realise I too hold parchment, three in fact. I glance at them and shuffle until I can pass him the second sheet.

He looks over the paper, which appears to have nothing written on it, then signs off on it with the quill, leaving no trace of ink.

As I reach for the door I glance back. I am by no means a religious man, so it surprises me that I should have come across Jesus like this.

He gives me an impatient smile to send me on my way.

The door swings open and Cass’ guidance echoes around an expansive chamber within a pyramid. Golden light beams down onto a stone altar in the middle of the chamber. She guides me to run my fingers over the glyphs etched into the granite.

“You see your past self enter from the opposite side of the chamber as he comes forth to ask your forgiveness.”

Her voice slips away as he enters.

He moves forward with the grace and ease of a serpent. Fitting really. After all, he was The Son of the Dragon. At the foot of the dais he drops to one knee, head bowed. I tentatively reach out to him, cupping his stubbled chin in the palm of my hand.

His dark eyes rise to meet mine.

Tears well for both of us.

“I did not mean for all this to be.” His words are English, yet accented strongly towards Eastern Europe.

“I know.” I nod with understanding. “We are as one.” And with those words a sea of imagery flashes through my minds eye. Forests of Beech, Spruce and Oak. Then even denser forests of poles with impaled bodies, men, women and children. An ocean of screams floods my ears.

“Forgive my sins.”

“Few accept you for who you truly are,” I reply. “You did what needed be done.”

The understanding and acceptance breaks his demeanour and he lets out a cry and in that moment it is a young child’s chin I hold in my hand. The boy sobs with fear and relief. I move to embrace him and his tiny arms grip me as fiercely as a grown man.

“Ok, you are going to come back now,” Cass chimes. The boy turns to smoke in my embrace and the chamber fades. I open my eyes to find myself once again sitting in Cass’ dining room. She smiles at me, “Wow.”