Interlude to Part 8
The vast mountain ranges which encircle our planet remain but seemingly without life now. In the high places the glaciers are greatly diminished. They are fed no more. The ices which fell from above are now rains. In elder times, these were the life of our world. They would be no more. Our city, as seen from above, …… The skies, once azure, now red at the zenith changing to light green at the horizons. To he who sees not, all is quiet, almost serene.
There was a time when a tradition of descension existed for the purpose of strengthening through endurance of ages that which was begun with such diligence, through such effort… by so many for so long. That this might not be lost through forgetfulness was the reason. And as the children gathered in the evenings to hear, the master would begin, once again, to tell the tale, our story, lest it be lost to them.
Our part of the world was almost entirely mountains with, in the lowlands, great blue green lakes of fresh water within which were the forms that we so relied on especially in those last centuries. The skies, both at night and in the day, were much the same. The night sky was nearly filled with stars, so closely arranged that scarcely any darkness was to be seen between them. Our star, close to the center of our common galaxy, was dim now and casting a reddish light over the lands. Yet we found comfort in those hues which remained. This was when he was high, at the zenith and when the winds were at their maximum.
Our world was close, much closer to the center as was yours, your Earth, our new home which we hoped to share with you. The light of the night was almost equal to that of the day. The sight of it was wonderful but, at the same time, overwhelming. The night skies of the Earth, our new home, would be different, darker. Seemingly more distant.
We chose to go into the ground, into the rocks of the mountains to escape being reminded of our fate which was so closely tied to our position in the universe. Now… in this time of day, the waters in the fast moving river near to us had the appearance of green where long ago they were blue. Upon the crests of the turbulence though the shades of white seemed to not have changed. This was our river. We called her the Ta’anay which, translated into the common tongue would refer to it’s hurried pace. The bringer of life rushes to the future. The river, our river of life was also the messenger of that which follows. told us of the fleeting quality of any effort be it by man or some other. But it was, like the rest of our planet, in a state of diminished activity. Now it had slowed somewhat, the waters above now fewer throughout the year. What life remained to her was being pulled below to find what ever ending to their story might be waiting in the single great lake that remained in our part of the world, was slowly giving way to the bitterness of acids. And the rocks, the vast foundations of our world yet gave direction to the waters. Dark, almost black they were or are without any sign of the plant or animal life which had once been in plenty. After they left the soils too departed. The flying lives of our world were no more. All was now in the bosom of the great lake where they would find endings which were suited to them. Towards the end this was the way of things in our land.
Our city, small as it was compared to some, was made of this same dark stone. If seen from above it looked no more than a grouping of black stone cut into cubes fitted together in intricate patterns set among the otherwise grayish tones of the mountainside. One would look twice before noticing that this was not a natural structure. This, set close to our river, was all that appeared to the observer who might pass by high above. There were no external pathways, no roads, no windows, no terraces or plant life to be seen. The city had all these but they were within, cut into the mountain within and beneath the structure. This was our way. Quiet it seemed but within having much activity. We, the people were preparing for departure.
Our gods had left us but one, our angel of deliverance, remained. She, the Lady who we would come to know so well, would be our guide.
The people, we Aryan-a folk, had carved great blocks. Into cubic shapes, using concentrated, directed, narrowly focused, beams of gravity with which we were once so adept, so much so that our cities rose to great heights, defying even the highest of the mountains. We gave them names too, the theme of touching the sky was a favorite one. But our city, as it is now, although perched high on the side of a mountain made of dark stone seemed empty, deserted. But it was not. Not yet. This craft we brought with us to the new world.
It was our custom to build our homes in the shadows of the mountains which gave us the materials for them. We thus favored the clean angular designs. Is that really a habitation? But for who? This is the way we designed our homes. But below inside the rocks often in very deep places were the doors, the windows, the roads which served us well. Here, not on the outside open to the sky, was the life that one might expect to otherwise find. Imagine this now. A rocky mountainside of dark stones and a single fast moving river at the side of which was more stone but these in the unnatural shapes which indicated the hand of men and women who made them. That was all that remained when we left. The memories we would bring with us to rise again in a new, as yet undiscovered, new place.
Note: The travelers knew of the new world only that which had been given them by the angels who had seen it. It was thus on faith alone that they proceeded, trustfully, in great anticipation, to their new world, our Earth.
This was our world and our city. The above description allows the reader to be there with us in those times and to perhaps feel what we felt. And then we left. And now we are here on the Earth. The beginnings that we made here are remembered by many cultures and through the writings in historical and religious texts. We were, to those who lived in the times to come… gods. We found the high places, the mountains but near to our chosen location there were no fast moving rivers. There was a lake though, a great and very deep one, nearby. She, to our satisfaction, provided us the link that we so sorely needed.
The process of changing up out of the physical and into the lower heavens produces perceptual changes which tend to remain. But as even with the hardest of stones, they eventually fade… Now they are no longer memories, but legends which, so often, confuse those, our descendants, who continue to speak of them.
The reader will find in the above a brief comparison of the two worlds. Endings are times of record keeping efforts which later, in new places, will become memory recollections. Later still, memories become legends.
The above is a true account of those times. I, Tholomo, was there.
Last edited by bartholomew : 24-08-2023 at 04:16 AM.