An Angel on My Shoulder

by David Callinan

  The spirit form was moving away and Paul was aware now of being in, what appeared to be, a gigantic building. There were people here but they were not people. Paul understood that he was receiving images presented so that he would understand, not as they actually were. A sparkling river wound its way through the building that resembled a fantastic palace made from light and jewels. Without being able to recognize any of the beings present, and there were many hundreds, a good number of them recognized him. He experienced a collective surge of love towards him. He had known them once. He saw them as both solid beings and as ephemeral spirits. What was more enticing and joyful was that he could almost rationalize the vision and ask questions of it while he was experiencing it. This, he knew, was the purpose of the angel group acting as guides. The images were not real in the commonly accepted sense of the word and yet they were more than real.

  They were like simulations governed by the capacity and evolutionary development of his brain and its ability to telepathically interpret situations of a purely spiritual or cosmic nature. Even the language of his own mental thought processes was inadequate and he began to resort to symbolism as a new kind of language that could provide vast amounts of information instantaneously. At the far end of the building or golden edifice were, what appeared to be, gigantic doors, ornately decorated and vibrating with colour and sound. He could experience new colours, never before seen and impossible to describe without recourse to other colours. The doors were swinging open and Paul stepped back, blinded by a light so powerful if defied the description of light.

  A sound resembling chanting emanated from everything and every entity in the giant hall of gold. He could hear the now familiar singing of the mantra and was aware of angel presences around him. He found himself singing Ru-Ah, Ru-Ah, Ru-Ah with utter passion and love.

  A being, or what appeared to a being, of colossal size and power entered or appeared in the doorway. Paul could not look at it. He knew it was an individual spirit being but he also understood that he, and everything in the entirety of creation was part of it. It dwarfed his spirit so that his individual consciousness and awareness of his own existence was now just a tiny spark, a white horse bobbing on an endless and unknowable ocean. Every second of his little life was quite suddenly placed in exact perspective to the immensity of the force surrounding and embracing him. They were one and the same. His was a small fragment or molecule of spiritual material belonging to the whole and yet to itself, recognizing its own existence and the existence of all there was.

  It was profoundly complex and yet stunningly simple. Paul was overwhelmed also by the clear understanding of the blindness, apathy and yet vital importance of life and of human life; as a dynamo producing raw energy in the constant ebb and flow of consciousness and as an intimate part of the jigsaw of existence and awareness.

  He fell to the ground, or this was his experience, before the creative vortex that was Ru-Ah. The name was for his benefit, just as all language and imagery he experienced was purely constructed to give him an intellectual, mental and spiritual grasp of another vision of reality. It sounded complex and yet, when experienced with the instantaneous language of symbolism, all was understandable, although not necessarily explainable in human everyday terms.

  Remarkably, Paul was perfectly aware of his whereabouts. He was sitting in his office preparing to visit Clara, the psychic healer, and yet was travelling in a dimension rarely visited by human beings at any point in their lives. He was acutely aware also of being able to distinguish between illusion, hallucination and a spiritual reality that was truly occult or hidden from view, almost like a shadow reflection that was easily confused with the mind games illusions could play within the psyche or the imagination.

  Ru-Ah simply existed. In the same way as an electromagnetic vortex pulls material to it within the range of its attraction, so the entity Paul knew as Ru-Ah sucked in soul material like his, embraced it with a love so powerful it was almost unbearable, then recycled it in emanations and vibrations that could form universes, planets and life itself.

  The word God popped into Paul’s mind as did Allah and then other names given to the godhead by races and religions throughout mankind’s history. Most names he had never heard of but he knew that what was intended was to demonstrate to him that mankind had only touched the surface of that which it called God. Religions too were only conjuring up explanations about Gods and Goddesses, dressed up in ritual, superstition, half-formed beliefs, myths and legends all mixed together with genuine insight and revelation.

  At that moment Paul came to understand something of the nature of the task for which he had been chosen. His ego had, on the one hand, preened itself at being chosen or selected to play an integral part in the next phase of human development, despite his cynicism, disbelief and wish to just live a normal life. In truth, it was simply the process. He was just fulfilling one, fraction of the Earthly actions that would take place as part of the evolutionary process. In this regard he was nothing special. Except, he felt at home here in the dimension of the angels. His spirit cried out to be reunited with the cherubim but he knew that when he was time would not exist for him.

  The power and majesty that was the spirit form of Ru-Ah was manifest on Earth as a humble human being who could not read or write and Paul saw suddenly the beauty of this. The Native American boy whose body housed the fire of this spirit could not have been influenced by anything he had ever read. Hence the importance of the book being written by a witness. Its authority would be questioned, as it could be expected but such would be the power of the message it would bring to the world that negative criticism would eventually be swept away as mankind underwent a spiritual metamorphosis and the world as man knew it would never be the same again.

  Paul was quite suddenly back in the present moment, in his office, staring at a blank screen listening to the telephone ringing. He picked up the handset.

  “At last,” Kate said, “what have you been doing? I’ve been ringing and ringing.”

  “Sorry,” said Paul. “I had to pop outside for a minute or two with Sabre.”

  “Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten I’ll be late home tonight, that’s all.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten,” he said. “I’m meeting someone for a drink in any case. Annie and Rory both know. But I guess I’ll be home before you.”

  “Okay, I’ll fix myself a sandwich. There’s no need to cook anything elaborate.”

  “I hadn’t planned to,” he said. “I’ll do the same myself. See you later.”

  “Okay,” she sounded a little distant.

  Paul remembered Rory and Sabre and went outside into the crisp air. Rory was jogging back along the well-worn track from the woods with Sabre scuttling along beside him. They made a good pair, a boy and his dog, except Sabre belonged to them all.

  Rory came panting up gasping about taking a shower and rushed inside the house. Sabre stayed where he was. The dog looked at Paul with an expression he could swear was superhuman. Sabre knew something was going on. There was no doubt of that. He sat watching Paul until he was given the signal. Then he ran and stood on his hind legs resting his muddy paws on Paul’s jeans.

  “You’re a smart pooch,” Paul ruffled the dog’s soft ears. “You’ll take care of me, won’t you? You won’t let any angels or demons steal my mind, eh?”

  A chill ran through Paul as soon as uttered the words. He now knew, without question or doubt, that most of what was happening to him was not a mental aberration that could see him committed to a home for the insane, but an actual, real life, hundred carat reality. And he knew there was worse to come. The nightmare had yet to begin in earnest. Dark powers would do their utmost to prevent him fulfilling his destiny. And he would be unable to talk to Kate or the family about it because they would privately think he had cracked.

  As a precaution, and feeling a little foolish, Paul visited a local market on is way into town where he knew there was a new age store that sold crys
tals. He had remembered the list and was surprised to find how inexpensive they were. He let the sparkling stones pick up reflections from the weak strip light on the ceiling and watched the facets glinting as the light struck them. He bought a black bag but allowed himself to handle the crystals for some time before placing them inside. Crystal technology. It reminded him of Malone’s Atlantis theory that the inhabitants of the lost continent had been able to make practical everyday use of the power inherent in crystals, in the same way that there were power stations and silicon chips today. Still, if the angels said this combination would give him some protection he would use it. He believed that the situation was coming to the boil. Soon, it would all be over and he would be left either insane and dribbling or back to normal expecting one day in the future to fulfill his destiny.

  It was early evening when Paul pulled into the horseshoe shaped residential street where the spiritualist church was situated. A private and shady patch of formal garden occupied the centre of the horseshoe, heavily shaded with oaks and ash trees and with an iron fence surrounding it, to keep out those without keys. A light rain was falling and an evening breeze ruffled through the branches of the trees. Paul parked and stood in the street for a few moments collecting his thoughts. About half way along one side of the street, partly lit by a pale amber street light, the spiritualist church looked like an ordinary house, small and tucked back somewhat from the road as if unwilling to declare its presence or location too publicly. The only way of telling it was a church or place of prayer and sanctuary was the Old English shaped windows partially glazed with a stained glass mosaic. A weather beaten notice board was positioned close to an entrance overgrown with couch grass and looked disconsolate in the shifting light. It wasn’t a building designed to inspire spiritual confidence. It was more like a converted barn or garage than a focus for the spirit world.

  Feeling a little stupid and conspicuous, Paul approached the entrance with some trepidation. He had been here before and to a couple of other spiritualist enclaves and had found them a little pretentious and all- knowing. This was a Christian church in name. Although Paul had been brought up as a devout Catholic, he now regarded himself as a spiritual adventurer, unwilling to finally give his complete commitment to any religion. He had studied Buddhism, was attracted to the Sufi sect of Islam and half convinced by charismatic gurus and self-proclaimed prophets but still fought shy of jumping into the ashram community or giving his all to a Gaia or B’hai type faith. His current experiences had reinforced this attitude.

  Still, he would give Clara a chance. It might do some good and shed some light onto what was going on. He went to the side door, which was illuminated only by an elderly and very rusty lamplight whose bulb was waning, and tried the door. It opened with hinges creaking. Paul was amused. If he allowed his imagination to take over, he could recollect the classic horror movie scenarios of creepy, gothic interiors, long shadows on walls and creaking doors.

  It was dark inside, except for a low level light bleakly illuminating what passed for an altar but was more of a raised and enlarged pulpit, enough for two or three people to sit side-by-side. Dotted around the small room were arrays of candles and Paul could see chairs in rows laid out as if for a service to be held later. There was a smell of melted wax, polish, some kind of incense and damp. Several doors led off from the main room and from behind one of them Paul heard a woman coughing. Then she began to sing in a soft contralto a song that sounded familiar. Paul finally recognized it as a tune his mother used to sing. The room was chilly and felt somehow remote and aloof as though the regular visitations of the spirit world had this effect.

  A door opened with a slight wheeze at the opposite end of the chapel and a woman of about fifty shuffled in wearing carpet slippers. She was solidly built in an Eastern European fashion and did have a touch of Romany about her. She wore an all-encompassing black gown and around her heavy-set neck dangled several rows of beads. Her skin was swarthy and her hair pulled back into a tight bun kept in place by an enormous silver clip.

  “Oh,” she said with a startled expression when she saw Paul standing there. “Hello, you must be the one who telephoned.”

  Paul introduced himself.

  “I’m Clara,” she told him. Her voice had attracted Paul when he had telephoned earlier. It was soft yet deep and slightly guttural with a hint of Romanian or Hungarian.

  “Psychic vampires isn’t it,” she sounded so matter-of-fact Paul was taken aback.

  “Well, it might be,” he felt a little foolish now he was standing there telling all this to a complete stranger.

  “And angels no doubt,” Clara sensed his discomfort.

  “I’m pretty sure, yes,” Paul told her.

  “Many people have angel experiences,” she explained as she shuffled into the small church and started to rearrange two chairs into a new position, one directly behind the other.

  “Do they?” Paul was intrigued to hear this.

  “Oh yes,” she assured him. “The bookshelves are stacked with books on angel this and angel that, angel lore and how to make contact with angels and allow them to work through you.”

  “Work through you?”

  “To do God’s will.”

  “You mean they have real conversations, hear voices and stuff?”

  “That’s not so common and the difficulty is to distinguish between genuine contact and forms of mental illness, such as schizophrenia. Most of it is in the mind.”

  “Not very scientific,” said Paul. “Don’t you get a lot of wackos claiming to be able to commune with the spirit world?”

  She looked at him as if the question was not entirely in good taste given their location and that it was fairly obvious that spiritualist s did have a direct line of communication to the dead, departed and spirit guides.

  “Making contact with those who have left this mortal coil is not quite the same thing as talking to angels,” she smiled at him. “A lot of the time the latter can be highly suspect and designed mainly to sell books. The problem is to distinguish the difference between the false and the genuine.”

  Paul found himself warming to Clara. At the same time as he felt this, the now familiar stirring in the pit of his stomach began to worm its way into his guts, as though no respecter of location or company.

  “I usually begin with hands-on healing, my dear,” Clara explained. “This helps to spring clean the psyche, so to speak, and I follow with some clairvoyance, letting whatever it is that has been plaguing you know that it is time to go, time to move on. Is that all right with you, my dear?”

  Paul agreed but said nothing. Clara invited him to sit in the chair in front while she sat behind him facing his back. Her arms, like the rest of her, were heavy as she rubbed her hands together and said a little prayer for guidance. Paul sat in the stiff-backed wooden chair as directed. The chill in the room grew a little frosty. He could feel Clara give an involuntary shudder behind him.

  “I’ll just go and put the heating on,” she said, got up surprisingly quickly and disappeared for a moment or two before returning.

  “That’s better,” she said. We’ll soon get warmed up now.”

  Around the old hall the ancient radiators began to clank and spit quietly.

  Paul was convinced he could feel Clara’s breath on the back of his neck as she leaned towards him. It was a musty scent; a strange brew of sweat and sandalwood. She placed her hands upon his shoulders. They rested there gently, her fingers fluttering slightly. Paul was fighting the rising tide of fear in his stomach and tried to meditate to give Clara clear access to his mind, still and serene.

  She began to breath heavily and then to pass her hands along and around the contours of his body, over his shoulders and then holding one palm over the top of his head and the other about four inches in front of his stomach.

  “She won’t help you,” snarled a voice in Paul’s mind.

  Clara reacted. She gulped air as though she was finding it hard to breath.
r />   “Paul.” It was Guardian Angel. “We are going to place a cloak of white light around you.”

  Paul did not know whether to be grateful or fearful. As with all the contact he had had so far it was difficult, if not impossible, to truly know if it was real or a mental trick or aberration.

  Paul quite suddenly went blind. He began to panic. He could not see anything. The hall and everything it had vanished, including himself. His hearing was unimpaired however. A sudden piercing of the veil took place as an image of his eldest daughter Cassie was placed into his frontal lobe. He knew she was dying. He had to get to her. He had to get out of this place.

  Clara screamed and withdrew her hands from him as though she had been burned with hot coals. Paul was starting to panic. Was Cassie all right or was it one of those devilish illusions? He was acutely conscious of mental and spiritual activity taking place furiously just out of range of his senses. He felt the enormous thump when Clara hit the floor behind him overbalancing on her chair. His vision cleared but the vivid image of Cassie crying out his name would not leave him.

  Adrenalin pumped into his bloodstream. He stood up and turned to find Clara petrified and groaning on the floor behind him. She was struggling to get to her feet. He stretched his hands out to help her up.