Shambala
Part Two
- The Journey -
I am coyote howling at the new moon.
I am the peacock in full bloom.
I am Kunte offering five pigs, three bows
And twenty arrows.
I am the wild stallion prancing.
I am Zorba dancing, breaking plates.
I am the man who has waited
Half a lifetime to smell your sweet perfume.
I am ready for you to come home.
I am an artist with an empty canvas.
I am a creator in a universe of infinite possibilities.
I am a god calling for my hearts desire . . .
Calling for my sweetest dream . . .
the woman who was designed for me.
I’m calling for you to come home.
Robert St. Clair
21
Trust life--
the bridge to eternity
beckons.
Thursday, two weeks before the detectives began the investigation:
After a satisfying dinner Robert, known to everyone at Happy Acres as Archibald Goodwin, moved over to the bridge table with his three best friends--Howard, Sopi and Maggie. It had been three weeks since he presented Mildred Rice with a hundred thousand dollars cash and moved into Betty Wilson’s room, and a little more than a month since he miraculously recovered from his near certain death coma.
Happy Acres was an executive gated facility, which housed twenty-seven “guests,” all of whom arrived with various stages of dementia or Alzheimer’s. No one there, except Sopi, had any idea that the new patient, Archibald, had a healthy and active mind. If Howard were to tell anyone that the new guy was the billionaire owner of the facility, they would laugh it off as just another of his fantastic tales.
While shuffling the cards, Robert grinned. He was pleased--all was proceeding as planned.
He reflected back to the days after he purchased Happy Acres. He met with only one person, a general contractor. That man coordinated the architects, sub-contractors, carpenters, painters and interior designers and within a of couple months he converted the huge mansion, set at the front of twenty wooded acres, into an upscale and exclusive retirement resort, with a price of admission well beyond the working class budget. The so-called guests arrived from rich, cultivated, privileged, groomed, and polite lives. All over seventy years old, they were constantly watched by Mildred Rice and her well-trained staff of caregivers, who led the guests through a daily routine of activities: exercise, arts and crafts, games, movies, and outdoor walks. One staff member played the piano and quite often they all joined in the singing of oldies but goodies, eliciting good memories and robust laughter. Nobody was allowed to sit for hours, vegetate, or stay in their room, unless death was imminent. The guests were encouraged to express their unique personalities, though some, like Howard and Betty Wilson’s, clashed. But for the most part they all liked being together, entertaining one another with stories of their lives before Happy Acres, either real or imagined. In the past weeks, Robert’s calm voice and funny stories made his three friends extremely happy, and they all were grateful that he had come to join them; an old friend with a new name--Archibald Goodwin.
Robert focused on his plan and how he would execute it. He had been trained for many years in the conscious movement of energy. His study involved many disciplines--prana yoga, kundalini yoga, Reiki, and the conscious expansion of ki or chi--all forms of life-force energy. His daily meditation for the past seventy-five years included one form of energy work or another, and although invisible, it was directly responsible for the global success of Shambala Foods. At his darkest hour, the time of his death, he decided to turn this energy inward, and use it for self-healing. It worked. His plan now was to share this life-giving energy with his friends, and at that moment, facing Maggie, Howard and Sopi at the bridge table, he could only hope for the same result.
Watching her watching him shuffle the cards, he was drawn to the tiny white polka dots on her dark blue dress, the way her gray hair was held in a bun with waterfall strands touching her shoulders, and how her baby-skin complexion was accented with a touch of pale red lipstick. He could imagine her smell, maybe a light spray of sweet perfume--to him she was still very beautiful and he had no doubt of his intentions.
Maggie had short-term memory loss and although Robert wanted to, he couldn’t tell her about his plan. She would agree with his explanation, and forget all about it five minutes later. Howard would listen to Robert’s story, but since his mind confused time, space and accepted reality, he would come up with an even better imaginary story to tell. Sopi would like Howard’s story better even though she knew very well it probably wasn’t true.
Robert remained patient as the bridge game began. He was again impressed with how Maggie and Howard remembered hundreds of technical terms, the rules and intricate maneuverings of the complicated game. They could care less about keeping score, winners or losers; they wouldn’t remember anyway. In the midst of counting cards, making bids, plays and runs, they shared pleasantries as all bridge players do.
After twenty minutes and a winning trick, Robert took a Tony Bennett LP out of his white jacket pocket and gave it to the attendant, who thinking nothing of it, slipped it in the CD player and turned up the volume. Maggie loved Tony Bennett and shyly squealed with delight when Robert stood up and asked her to dance. I left my heart in San Francisco . . . high on a hill . . . it calls to me . . .
The bridge game was officially interrupted as Robert removed his sunglasses and led Maggie to an open area and they began dancing cheek to cheek, which was easy since they were nearly the same height. Howard took Sopi’s hand, and then bending over, lifted her from the wheelchair and held her frail body. He put his cheek to hers, and joined the other couple. This amused the two evening attendants, who would be shocked if they knew what “Archibald” had in mind.
After about a minute of slow dancing Robert proceeded in doing what he most purposefully intended to do. Maggie wondered why he placed one hand on her head, opposite his cheek. With his cheek next to hers he began the energy transference. She felt the tinkles and they made her giggle. Something extraordinary was happening and without thinking she was actually thinking about healing energy, which was what her life profession had been all about. She was conscious of her thoughts. “Archie,” she whispered into his ear, “what did you just do?” He smiled. “You know,” he whispered back, “prana, chi, ki. Do you remember what you were just thinking?” That question surprised her. “I do. I was thinking that you just sent life force energy into my brain. Did you?” They moved their heads back and looked into each other’s eyes. “”I did,” he answered. “I know how . . ,” she whispered in his ear, “but I never thought it could be used on the brain like this. What do we do now?” He put his cheek back to hers and also whispered, “Act like nothing has happened. Now, work with me with the life force energy . . . you and I together . . . on the rest of your body. Let’s fill it with healing light . . . right now.” He put his hand on the small of her back and with no fanfare she helped heal herself of osteoporosis, arthritis, and the first stage of cancer she wasn’t aware she had. As the song came to an end, Robert bent Maggie over, which almost made her eyes pop out of her head, moments before physically impossible, and whispered in her ear, “How do you feel?”
“Great!” she answered, still whispering. “Can you do that to Howard and Sopi, too?” The next song came up, I’ve got the world by a string . . . sitting on a rainbow . . . got the string around my finger . . . what a world, what a life . . . I’m in love.
“We’ll see. Sopi is next,” he answered, moving away. Tapping Howard on the shoulder, and before taking Sopi into his arms he asked, “May I have the next dance, madam?” He then proceeded to heal her of terminal stage four cancer, a disease she knew nothing about. When the song was through he placed her back in the wheelchair and took it to the table.
Maggie smiled at him and began whispering to Sopi about what had just happened. He then leaned over to Howard and said, “You know that place we always talked about going?”
“Oh do I. You mean up in the mountains. That fishing hole. Under the stars and pines. Oh my, yes I do know that place.”
“I want to take you there, Reggie.” In private Robert often called Howard “Reggie”--after all, that was his real name.
“When?”
“As soon as we don’t have to be here any more.”
“Well, I like it here, but you know . . . there’s still lots of places to go. When do you want to leave? I’m ready.”
Robert looked deep into his dear friend’s eyes. “You know I would never do anything to harm you. You know that don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Don’t be silly.”
“OK then. Let’s you and I go to the little boy’s room.” They excused themselves and went to the men’s room where Robert cupped Howard’s head in his hands and sent healing energy into his friend’s brain. The Latin names of botanicals flooded Howard’s mind and the horticulturalist wondered about his office and lab and an experiment he was conducting before he forgot . . . All he could say was, “Oh my god.” He hugged his best friend and they returned to the bridge table.
Maggie and Sopi were both grinning when they returned.
“Keep quiet, all three of you,” Robert whispered. “Stay in your wheelchair Sopi . . . practice walking in your room. Don’t let anyone know, or even suspect anything, especially the attendants over there . . . most especially Mildred Rice. You must act as if nothing has changed.”
“Why?” Maggie asked.
“I have a trip planned” He looked at his best friend. “It’s time for you and I, Reggie, to take that trip we talked about, and bring these two beautiful women with us.”
“So what’s the plan?” Howard asked, looking around to see if anyone else could hear.
“Well,” he paused. “I want to take the three of you back to Shambala with me.”
“That’s just a myth,” Maggie offered, her mind suddenly as sharp as ever. “There is no Shambala, Archie.” Maggie had gotten used to calling Robert Archie, and although she knew his real name, she liked the other better.
“Oh, there sure is a Shambala. I’ll prove it. Well go there next week.”
22
In the ocean:
lies secrets deep deceptions--
Unfathomable
In the week that followed “the healing,” life at Happy Acres was not all that pleasant for Maggie, Howard and Sopi. They continued to call Robert Archie, since Archie was like a cute nickname, but all the other secrets were much harder to deal with. Although Sopi felt better than she had in years, and her legs worked properly and she was cancer free, she wanted to get up out of her wheelchair, take off her shoes and feel the grass between her toes. She wanted to walk in the back acre’s pine forest and dance and play--things she hadn’t done long before she moved in. Howard was technically serious in his professional demeanor, and not as out-going as he had been in the last two and a half years. Now the staff thought he was depressed and they wanted to increase medication, since he no longer happily offered the non-sensical stories which entertained them. Not wanting to further arouse their suspicion, it took quite a lot of effort for him to recreate his dementia personality and make up gibberish.
Maggie had the hardest time of all. She now saw Robert in an entirely different light, and realized that she really didn’t know the man since she had had no contact with him in the last sixteen years. Although she went along with it, she disapproved of his charade. It made no sense to her why he refused to identify himself as who he was, the owner of Happy Acres. She argued that if he owned the place then he could dictate the rules, including making up one that would allow him and other mentally fit guests to live there. Now aware of her ability to heal her bodily afflictions, which she proclaimed equal or greater credit for, she wanted to come forward and attempt the healing on everyone else. She also insisted that Robert teach her how to heal the others of dementia and Alzheimer’s. He argued long and hard against saying a word; she acquiesced, but quite reluctantly. Maggie’s compassion then focused on Howard and Sopi. She saw how they struggled with their acts. If only Robert would confess, then Howard could stop being so stupid and Sopi could walk around and embrace her good health. Robert begged for her patience.
Through the weekend Maggie remained persistent in her argument for transparent disclosure and truth. With her thinking intact, she had no room for make-believe--or lies of any sort. At first she considered Robert’s plan to take them to Shambala an old man’s fantasy. She tolerated it, but by Monday, as he began stating out loud that he was once a guru from Shambala, possibly attempting to convince the staff of his dementia, she was losing her patience. Why would he say such a thing?
To make things worse, during a private talk with Howard and Sopi that weekend, she found out for the first time that Robert was the billionaire owner of Shambala Natural Foods. She had known the man for thirty years, and he had never told her. The deception and lies were beginning to pile up. A guru wouldn’t be this way--would never tell a lie, she thought. He’s no guru. Her mind began to question how she got to Happy Acres in the first place. They hadn’t been in contact for at least fourteen years before she arrived there. He had somehow tracked her down and brought her here. If he had the ability to heal my brain all along, why hadn’t he done it before? Am I an unsuspecting part of one of his long-term cons? Shambala? There’s no Shambala. He’s figured out some way to heal physical and mental illness, but what about healing himself? Does he have some sort of mental illness?
By Tuesday afternoon she was beside herself; her mind was filled with so many unanswered questions--she was beginning to feel anger and had to confront him. Late that night after curfew she went to his room and tapped on the door. It was a cozy little two room apartment, with one bedroom and a small living room. They sat in the two stuffed chairs, separated by a table and lamp.
“I know it’s past the curfew,” she started in, “and if you would come forth as the owner of this place I wouldn’t have to be worried about being caught.”
“There’s no reason to worry,” he politely answered.
“I don’t need you to placate me, Archie. You’ve put all of us in a very precarious position. You’re asking us to pretend and lie . . . for what? It is not in my nature to play make believe, nor is Howard’s. Sopi wants to get up and dance and express her good health. We’re cured of our mental illness, but are you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about all your lies and secrets and deceptions and cons. It just goes on and on . . . telling people you’re a guru from Shambala. There is no Shambala . . . and a guru who lies and deceives people? I can’t take any more of this.”
“It’s only for two more days.”
“Two more days? Then what? We get on a magic carpet and fly to this fairytale land of yours? I don’t think so.”
“It’s true.”
“True? The magic carpet? Archie . . . wake up! I just found out that you’re actually a billionaire, one of the richest men in the United States. You never told me about Shambala Foods and we’ve known each other for thirty years. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, No? You’re a billionaire renting a room in a dementia facility under a false name.” Maggie began to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I find out that you own the place, and old Mildred Rice, who has run it for the past three years, doesn’t recognize you? She has never met the person she works for?”
“There was no reason.”
“There is every reason! You own the damn place! But never mind. I just want to know if you’re in your right mind and if there is some sort of meaning to your wacky behavior.”
“There is, Maggie. I can’t tell you what it is right now. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“Trust you? Why? Everything you do and say speaks of mistrust. If you are in your right mind, then you need to come forward with the truth - at least to us. You have some sort of power, Archie . . . it’s obvious and I appreciate what you’ve done . . . but it’s not enough. You started something that you need to complete.”
“It’s far from completion. It’s only beginning . . .”
“There you go again . . . being vague . . . trying to draw me into your fairytale and I’m sorry . . . I’m just not going to buy into it.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Tell the truth!”
“I will. How about tomorrow evening after dinner.”
“I look forward to it. Good night, Archie.”
That “good night” was interrupted by a light knock on the door. Robert opened it and his young Tibetan assistant walked in. “Good evening, Tulku,” he said with a deep reverent bow.
“I take it that everything is in order with you tonight. Good evening, Mrs. Maggie. I hope I have not interfered. Forgive me.”
“I was just leaving, Tenzin,” she answered. “Good night.”
“May I help you to your room?”
“That isn’t necessary. Good night.”
Soon after she left, Tenzin bowed to Robert and left Happy Acres. Mildred Rice tolerated Tenzin’s nightly presence only because Archibald Goodwin demanded it. The reasoning of why the young man showed up between eight and nine made absolutely no sense to anyone except the little man in white with his many secrets; Tenzin’s appearances were now taken for granted.
What you just read was only ten pages of my 517 page novel. Shambala is written in three parts, this being the first two chapters of Part Two - The Journey. The three parts represent a journey from the 3rd to the 5th dimension of consciousness, told in a compelling story which most anyone can easily read. I am raising $10,000 to finance the necessary levels and requirements for ebook, self-publishing and promotion. My intention is to make this book visible and available to an awaiting audience who will love this fantastic story. Please feel free to share these chapters with others on your email list, and/or contribute as your heart desires.
With my love and blessings as always,
David Dakan Allison
ps. If you donate $1000 or more I will put your name in the Acknowledgement page of my novel. At $10,000 you will be acknowledged as a Patron. This novel could sit in my computer and go nowhere, or just as well be an inspiration to millions of readers around the world. I am projecting the latter, visualizing/experiencing the joy of everyone I know when the millionth book is sold.
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