liberty of brewing a flask of Kopi Luwak. A soothing panacea to any states of shock and anxiety one may suffer. Emotions you are no doubt currently experiencing.”
Sitting bolt upright, heart pounding, I stared in wide-eyed terror at a tall, imposing man stood at the foot of my bed. Immaculately attired in a grey cashmere coat and tailored navy suit, he held a silver cup of steaming coffee in one slender hand while the other rested casually on a gleaming black walking stick. Perhaps in his mid forties, his swarthy skin, dark eyes and lustrous black hair conspired with a hawkish nose, thin lips and high cheekbones to lend him a regal, almost cruel countenance.
“Who… Who the hell are you?”
Studiously ignoring my question, he blew gently on the rim of the cup and took a tentative sip before smiling in satisfaction. “You really must sample the coffee Mr Lightfoot; before it’s vital essence is lost.”
Grabbing my mobile from the bedside table I punched in three nines with trembling fingers.
“Alas Mr Lightfoot, you will find such modern and may I say invasive communications ineffectual.”
I stared in horror at the blank screen. “Shitotage! What the hell you done to my phone?”
The man’s eyes like molten pools of tar rose slowly from the cup and locked with mine. “I will forgive your outburst of appalling, but I believe uncharacteristic manners Mr Lightfoot. Indeed, am even prepared to overlook such base and unfounded accusations on the premise you are obviously suffering a degree of mental anguish.”
“ANGUISH! YOU’RE IN MY GOD-DAM HOME!”
A contradictory index finger rose slowly from his cup. “An understandable, but nevertheless incorrect assumption Mr Lightfoot. Perhaps if you’d indulge me and take a quick peak out of the window.”
“The window! What the hell for?”
The man sighed frustratingly; “Because it will no doubt enlighten you as to the true nature of our circumstances.”
Glancing at the window I froze in stunned wonderment. Outside, the familiar street had miraculously been replaced by a vast universe of galaxies and stars glittering coldly in the infinite vacuum of space.
“I believe it was the eminent psychoanalyst Freud who once remarked; ‘Dreams are often most profound when they seem most crazy.’”
Wrenching my eyes from the cosmic vista, I stared incredulously at the debonair gentleman. “You’re telling me I’m dreaming? All this…. Is an illusion?”
The man nodded slowly before raising another contradictory finger. “Though illusions are not necessarily delusions Mr Lightfoot. While you sleep you’re subconscious has been diligently sorting through the veritable myriad of conundrums thrown up by recent events. Quite logically the cerebral process has finally led you to the most expedient resolution; seeking the one person capable of providing the answers you seek.”
Throwing off the quilt, I shrugged on my dressing gown and strode to the window. “But this can’t be a dream! I can smell the coffee and the wood smoke; feel the heat of the fire for Gods sake!”
“None of which are uncommon to the sensory realm of the subconscious Mr Lightfoot. Indeed, the veil between the waking and dream worlds can be a scant and sometimes imperceptible one.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I turned and gazed at the man who flashed me an enigmatic smile before adding: “Though I must admit to our connection being a little less transitory than most. You see Mr Lightfoot, you possess a gift; and though certainly not unique, it is without doubt impressive.”
“Gift? What sort of gift?”
“Well, without dwelling on the metaphysical condition of which twenty-first century science knows little; you are what the ancient Sumerians called an Enlil”.
“A what?”
“Translated it means; ‘Lord of the Air’. A poetic title describing individuals possessing varying degrees of what Frederick W.H Myers termed telepathy.”
“Who?”
“A forward thinking, but much maligned Nineteenth Century classical scholar.”
“You’re seriously telling me I’m ensconced in a dream! A dream in which our minds are telepathically linked?”
“A vague, but I suppose adequate description of our circumstances Mr Lightfoot. Indeed a most fortuitous one, enabling us to evade the persistent attentions of the Yamin Elohiym.”
“The Yamin who?”
“From the Hebrew; ‘The Right Hand of God’. Those who shadow your every move.”
“You mean those Priests? Shittavicar! You know them?”
“Indeed I do Mr Lightfoot. Our mutual animosity reaches back rather a long time.”
“How long?”
“Millennia Mr Lightfoot. The Yamin Elohiym are an ancient order; a secret Priesthood who’s unbroken patriarchal line stretches back to the time Elyon first chose Noah to inherit the earth.”
“Elyon?”
“The God of the Old Testament; though rest assured he most certainly is not God!”
“This is truly surreal ganja! You’re telling me God is not God?”
“Indeed Mr Lightfoot; both Elyon and I are Elohim. Those the Book of Genesis call ‘Sons of God’; immortal creatures responsible for creating both the Nephilim and Civilised Man.”
“Who the hell are the Nephilim?”
“The men of old, the mighty men of renown; first Kings and Emperors of Civilised Man. Those cryptically mentioned in both the Books of Genesis and Numbers.”
“I thought the Book of Genesis told of Man’s creation by God?”
“Indeed it does Mr Lightfoot; but alas, it is a much edited and frankly blasphemous account. A fraudulent creation story written by the Yamin Elohiym to support Elyon’s claim to be God.”
“But why?”
“To bequeath Elyon divinity over Civilized Man. Create him an all powerful deity to be feared, worshipped, but more importantly; slavishly followed in all matters pertaining to his moral code.”
“What moral code?”
