are in Eliom.”
I furrow my brows, confused. “This doesn’t look like Eliom in my dream.”
“Ah, yes. Your dream. Reliving a memory 35,000 Earthly years old.”
“35,000?! Bael said he had waited four thousand years.”
“He has found you before, despite our vigilance.” Quatama gestures at the low table before us. A glazed earthenware pot of steaming liquid and two small cups appear upon it. Quatama pours what smells like a fragrant cinnamon tea into the cups.
“Do we need to eat and drink on this plane?”
“We may not need it. We may desire it.”
I sip from my cup, the taste pleasant, slightly sweet. “Bael gave me a message for you, Quatama.”
“Then you must deliver it, for he is not permitted to travel to this place, and I have no desire to seek him in the depths.”
The depths!? “He said you must allow us to seek a new beginning.” In my astral state, I find it hard to clearly recall Bael’s words. “He said you must allow us to try to heal the rift . . . although I don’t remember exactly what the rift was. Did Bael and I fight? End our previous relationship in Eliom? Quatama, I don’t understand any of this. I don’t remember what happened to Bael and myself all those centuries ago in Eliom.”
Quatama rises from the floor, literally, his legs still tucked beneath him, robe flowing over them. He straightens them in one fluid motion, standing now, and reaches out a hand to help me up. “He refers to the rift in the heavens.”
“I still don’t understand.”
He leads me outside. “Shut your eyes, Leianna.”
I do so, and feel him briefly touch my hand again.
“You may open your eyes now.”
We stand on one side of a city street. A sculpted stone balustrade, wide clear walkways, and corner gardens surround a large stone building, designed like a Roman temple, its stairs leading to thick scrollworked columns at its entrance. Across the street is a park; down the street, in what appears to be a shopping avenue, colorful stores gaily display their items and wares. People pass by us, unconcerned by my nightgowned figure. It appears to be a normal day, the people intent on their own business. I notice they are also clothed, pretty much, for winter. But although the few trees lining the thoroughfare are still leafless, neither snow nor ice can be seen.
“The climate here is more controlled,” Quatama answers my unspoken question. “The population has unanimously decided on an early Spring. Soon the trees will bud.”
He walks up the stairs to the Romanesque building. “This is the Hall of Seraphic Records,” he explains. “We are still in Eliom, which has grown and changed with the passing centuries. This city is known as the City of God. It exists here on the eighth physical astral plane, along with other cities resurrected humanity has built.”
“Resurrected humanity?”
“Those who have finished all of their Earthly lessons and no longer incarnate.”
“Are unfinished humans allowed up here?” I wonder if the question is moot, being I am up here.
“They normally inhabit the sixth physical astral plane . . . the sixth heaven . . . between incarnations. Those still mortal can visit their deceased loved ones on that plane as well, although few remember such visits.”
Huge engraved doors open as we approach them. We enter the Hall of Seraphic Records. Inside, a long corridor stretches into the distance, seeming much too extended, impossibly so, for a building of this size. Quatama doesn’t remark on my amazement, simply leads me down the corridor about thirty yards and turns right down another corridor. We continue on another twenty yards or so, passing doors with frosted glass and lettering I can’t quite read. The entire interior reminds me of a school, the walls green and yellow, the doors dark brown with golden handles.
We pause at a door on the left. The lettering, large and black against the glass reads: Auricular-Visual Recall. Quatama pushes against the door. It swings open. I follow him inside. A pert blonde with a hairstyle and face reminiscent of Sandra Dee or Doris Day from the early sixties sits behind a brown wooden desk, off-white filing cabinets behind her, and another door to the left of the cabinets. The woman wears a flowery, gauzy blouse that nonetheless is discreet.
“Hello, Master,” she greets Quatama, with a curious but pleasant nod to me.
“Hello, Rosemary. We would like to review this young lady’s first lifetime in segments, starting with her infancy.”
“First Earthly lifetime?”
“No. First immortal lifetime in cognizant form. It took place in old Eliom.”
“Oh.” She glances at me, impressed, and gets up to open one file drawer. Unconcealed by the desk, I realize she is clothed in an Indian sari. “Her spiritual name?”
“Leianna, daughter of Michael and Eve.”
The woman’s hand freezes, motionless, as she reaches into what appears to be an empty drawer. She looks at me, her expression both surprised and subdued, then at Quatama, her brows lifting sharply. I wonder what caused her double-take, but she doesn’t explain it.
Quatama glances over it, saying with gentle patience, “I wish her to review certain significant events, but it cannot be done in one mortal night. I wish her to have total conscious mortal recollection of that lifetime, sharply detailed, with full comprehension when she awakens on Earth. It cannot interfere with her mortal duties and activities, and we must guard against sensory overload. I would like her gauged as to her limit and a buffer transmitted into both her astral and physical brains, to stop the transmission the moment her emotional and intellectual levels reach capacity. The memory regenerator should also be set to mark the stopping point, to gauge where to begin the next segment.”
“Yes, sir,” Rosemary says. She pulls a red accordion file from the previously empty drawer and places it on the desk. I peer into it. There appears to be a plain manila folder, lettersized, a shiny hard black rectangle approximately five inches by seven inches, and what looks like a diamond prism. “Everything in order?” she asks me.
“I wouldn’t know,” I tell her.
“You wouldn’t?” This clearly confuses her, which in turn confuses me. Why does she think I would understand any of this? This is the craziest dream I’ve ever had.
“It is not a dream,” Quatama says, and upon hearing that, I start to hyperventilate.
Quatama reaches out and touches my inner elbow. A cloud of silver sparkles seems to rotate around me, in front of my eyes, and I suddenly feel calmer.
“She doesn’t know,” Rosemary says, her voice hushed again.
“No. She doesn’t know,” Quatama agrees. “Is the viewing room ready?”
“I prepared it a second ago, sir. And the report on her intake limitations is in the small folder. The buffer crystal is also set and ready for transmittal.”
Quatama lifts out the onyx rectangle.
