Adamson's Village.

 

From the Desk of George Barnard.

Universe Reflection.

All major events, perhaps all events that ever occurred, are recorded.  As I understand the method of administration beyond mortal life; there are Beings that can "contain within their selves" information of all kinds -- in 3D color pictures, sound, smell and taste, even touch.  And at this point we can only guess at what other undreamed-of senses may be employed in our lives beyond our "graduation to a higher realm".

Mind-to-mind communication is hardly a hypothetical, but a proven fact, indeed.  There is evidence of 'instanter' beamed-down information that has its origin on Paradise -- send down to us for the specific purpose of our avoiding a seemingly disastrous "fait accompli" belonging to tomorrow's, next week's, next year's experiential "program".

These effects are often called Universe Reflection.

Quite Dead.

More than 30 years ago, I was confronted with "something" that would probably frighten the living daylights out of most folks.  Likely, I had long been subliminally indoctrinated about an encounter eventually to come about, and therefore only my curiosity was aroused when the momentous day arrived.

Before me stood a mighty, near-naked warrior, well armed and with a reddish glow about his scintillating skin.  Though he was obviously not in my dimension of space/time, he spoke to me, clearly, and in both French and English.

He called himself Ahbécétutu (ABC-22), said he was a warrior, chief, shaman and teacher.  Moreover, when questioned about his moral principles of the past, he replied that he was all ways vouched for by his seraphic superiors.  And although he seemed to be friendly enough, it occurred to me he had long ago expired, was utterly confused about his real name, and totally lost on the Australian continent.

Surely, this "Red Indian" fellow belonged in the Americas.
Perhaps he had once owned a vintage motor vehicle with the number plates ABC-22.  Perhaps the marker on his grave bore that unusual ABC-22 inscription, if he had been put six foot under without anyone knowing his name.

He seemed to be somewhat unhappy about my thinking he was quite dead.

"…Better Go Home, Mate."

Perhaps he could tell me his name was Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, or Bald Eagle.  I could then do some research for him, find out where his teepee once stood, send him on his merry way halfway across the globe, and he could forever rest in peace.

Poor Ahbécétutu claimed to have had only one name, ever, and he was darned insistent about it as well.

"I think you had better go home, mate," I told him.  "North America is where you once lived.  Go find your buffalo hide tent, or your tribe.  You're in the Southern Hemisphere here.  This is the flipping Land of Oz!"
    
But "stone dead" Ahbécétutu stayed put, and took no orders from a live mortal.  He was evidently deluded, but darned stubborn about his intentions to stay around.

"You Show Me."

"You'll be able to show me where you were born, or where you died."  I told him.  "Back in the homestead there are plenty of maps of every country in the world."  The warrior would be coming home with me, I knew it, and he could place his ghostly index finger right on the very spot where his hometown was located.  Then I would instruct him to return to his old haunts and find peace at last.

I felt ever so sorry for the "poor lost guy", and in my mind I prepared myself for lengthy discussions with him.  It would probably take a lot of convincing to make him go home.  I was counting on having to be brutally honest with him, until he might finally realize that he had long been "deader than dead".

An Instant Answer.

Suddenly, a map of the Mediterranean Sea showed up on the screen of my mind, and a point of light directed my gaze to the east north east of its eastern-most shore.  It would have to be in Turkey, I thought, where this Red Warrior claimed to have been born, or to have died.

He would most likely turn out to be a time-robbing liability.  I felt responsible for the welfare of his "ghostly presence", pity, concern, and I was overwhelmed by the thought there might be even more "long-suffering ghosts" out there, just like him.

There were three more!

"Show Us Your Hometown Then."

Perhaps if I could convince just one of these guys to accept he was dead, they would all realize their lives had come to an end.  They might locate the angels in charge, and these seraphim could gather a whole busload of them to take to Heaven.

They might not be ghosts after all.  They might well be people's confused souls, but if he could show me maps, he would also know how to show me pictures.

"Give us a look at your hometown then," I framed my thoughts.

In the next instant, so it seemed, we were both standing on the southeastern shore of a freshwater lake.  In the distance there were cloud-shrouded mountains.  To our left a mountain stream emptied into Lake Van.  Facing us was a village of some fifteen huts.

Yes, we were facing directly southeast.

The Genius Of The Adamites.

Right where we stood was the very place where ABC-22 had stood so many times, guarding the village of his grandparents and parents.  These were grim times when people were hunters, gatherers, raiders and cannibals.

They were comfortable, white-washed round huts, with their rather tall, thatched roofs that looked like they had been standing there for thirty or forty years or more.  These equal sized dwellings were typical of so many African village huts, but it was obvious that a great deal of planning had gone into the layout and construction of this village.

The single doorway to each of these dwellings faced the lake, allowing the early morning sun to kindly awaken its occupants.  And the doorways were arched, indicating the use of unfired clay with a likely reinforcing of straw, reeds, twigs and branches.

The village's layout was such that no one could approach the individual domiciles, or sneak up on any of the structures, without being seen skipping from one temporary cover to the next.

A single sentry, placed precisely where we now stood, could oversee the entire settlement.  It was burglar proof!

Perhaps a half-mile square of lush vegetation had been cleared, leaving only grasses, but a large circle of red river gravel surrounded all these residences of ancient times.

No one could give the Adamites, or their valued consorts any nasty surprises during the day or during the night.  Thieves or man-eaters -- men or beasts -- might not be seen at night, but they would surely be heard as they traipsed across the noisy gravel.

"Not Half As Dead As…"

Late in the evening of the following day, and as I meditated in my clinic; the warrior arrived once more in a flash.  He looked to be rather optimistic about having a therapist for a new friend and pupil, and to teach the mortal many things of long ago.

"I've given you guys a lot of thought," I told him, "and you know something?  I figure you're nowhere near half as dead as I thought you were."

It was hardly news to the Midwayer Chief.  "What takes you so long?" he asked.

© 11:11 Progress Group.
Toujours au Service de Michael.

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