TALES OF PROPHECY

Just for a moment, ponder what the future might hold beyond Judgement Day. Ask what resurrection means to humanity as it exists upon Earth today? Is there a possibility of it being the end of the seventh day of creation: a day of rest? Could it lead to the dawn of an eighth day of creation? If so, how will it be revealed?

Imagine... Tales of Prophecy

Begin as the dust settles and the ashes blow in the wind… reflecting intent in a prelude to prophecy. As the rain falls to reunite the dust and ashes in the puddle of creation, mould the mud in receiving prophecy and then learn to understand prophecy outside of time and space. Continue the process step by step until the dawn of the eighth day of creation awakens sometime after delivering prophecy.

Possibilities are infinite…

Join me and I will relate a series of philosophical narratives of one such possibility. They are about a messenger and the Instruments of Creation she has met, particularly a few special Cultural Judges.

A PRELUDE TO PROPHECY

Creation is about change. Change is frightening. Like a caterpillar must feel when it begins to spin its cocoon to metamorphize into a butterfly, it involves preparing to give up a form of existence in anticipation of a realization of a new state of existence, hopefully with enhanced meaning.

Every assignment given to a Cultural Judge begins with the formation of parameters woven into a stage within which it can be assessed, developed, and tested for adherence to the laws of God.

According to Instruments of Creation there is a formula for serving God. It is a process by which one can relinquish will to essentially become a robotic vessel in which to carry out tasks under the sole discretion and command of God without any personal control to the best available standard one is capable of exhibiting. It is based on relativity, resilience, attachment, and relationship.

The Kingdom of God already exists, therefore starting at the beginning cannot be accomplished. However, to be born again, requires starting somewhere. That somewhere is with a prelude to prophecy.

Ready to start the tale?

Okay, here goes…

Are you willing to change your soul?

Judgement day is upon us. York Sabastin has been assigned our Instrument of Creation. Heed his lessons. Let him be your guardian. Reach for the Kingdom of God.

York Sabastin is a Cultural Judge on a distant planet called the Land of the Butterflies. His people believe they are Instruments of Creation bred to carry out the will of God throughout the universe. York has just returned from the planet Torac and his solution raised hopes that he was a prophet. As the lands most valuable cultural judge, he is assigned to answer the question: Should the civilization on the Earth be destroyed? He is required to provide both the answer and the solution.

God promises to teach him all the lessons he needs through him serving as a sire of a castle on the Land of the Butterflies. This mini-series, in four books, is the account of those lessons and his judgement.

They are:

Book 1: Preparations

Book 2: Lakker

Book 3: A New World

Book 4: Merse

INTRODUCING BOOK 1

Relativity is the measure of the ability to compare to permit judgement. Preparations are required to create an internalized methodology to gain an objective prior to performing the first action that seals the course of future actions onto a path approved by God.

First and foremost, one must prepare to receive instruction unconstrained by culture and familiarity, give up identity and surrender to unrestrained control of only God in thought, word, image, and action.

Book 1, Preparations, of A Prelude to Prophecy, The Land of the Butterflies, is the account of the lessons received by our Instrument of Creation to both internalize the will of God and display it indisputably within an image demanded by God to place himself in a position to receive all the lessons required to produce the demanded judgement and its solution.

PROLOGUE

October 18, 1996,

Greetings, my friends,

My name is Tara Miskenack. When I was younger, my friends occasionally asked me to tell them my story. Sometimes I tried, but invariably, one of two things would happen. Those who were kind would display a serious look of concern and fear association with me, lest they too be condemned to rot in Hell for my blasphemy and sacrilegious beliefs. Others, in cruel and taunting sneers, would begin chanting a song suggesting a need to commit me to an insane asylum. Therefore, for a long time, I kept my story to myself.

Besides, when I look out into the stars or sit quietly worshipping, I know my faith is strong and secure. In the end, my fellow earthlings will understand I am as blessed as are they. Only, I stole a little something and kept it to myself when I was young.

I am not going to tell you my story because it is not yet over. I am still living it! However, I am getting older. Therefore, I will try to tell you a little about the Land of the Butterflies. The characters I shall introduce to you are as real as I am. They are flesh and blood human beings just like you and me. Often, I think of them as angels, but in my heart, I know they are merely another race. They are my brothers and sisters and are a chosen people.

There is great comfort in looking up into the night sky, seeing the light of life shining across the distances, and knowing we are not alone. We are being guarded and guided into the future. God is ever beside us, around us, and within us. We are never alone, never forsaken. We are just blind sometimes and need a little help from the Instruments of Creation.

Somewhere, out there, so far away our strongest telescopes cannot pick out their sun as a single star in a cluster of many, barely discernible galaxies in the heavens, is the Land of the Butterflies. The people, vainly perhaps, say they reside in the heart of God.

Their culture is radically different from ours. I have tried very hard to tell you this story from their perspective. We are the aliens in their eyes. However, their culture did shock me, and I humbly apologise for my errors both to you and to them.

In ways, they appear very primitive, but what they know and can do boggles my mind. I cannot understand the placement of visions in time, nor know exactly whether any one event in my life really followed any concrete, chronological order. After all, our worlds are so far apart, and conventional time, they told me, was dependent on the light of God. What I think of light is that it takes millions of years to come from their world to ours or vice versa.

Yes, I have been there. I know many of the characters personally. I have never met Tara Lakker, but I know her spirit, maybe even have a little of it wrapped around my own soul. I thank destiny for giving me the name Tara. I am thoroughly convinced the prophet, York Sabastin, has a weakness for women with the name of Tara. Had my name been any other, I would not even have this story to tell!

I think the story of York Sabastin leads to the beginning of my story. To make it easier to tell, I have ignored a few facts. Their day, for example, is equivalent to twenty-eight point three eight Earth hours. Their year, too, is longer. I also have taken the liberty of filling in some blanks in my knowledge. This story is part of the history of the Land of the Butterflies and important to them as well.

I came back with knowledge that they are more than a dream. I am not going to tell you whether their culture is better than is ours or disgustingly sinful. When I look at our moon, although it is nearly identical to theirs, I think about being there, and when I see a butterfly, I feel warm inside and want to dance. For myself, despite the harshness of life and the fact I was there for only three years, I would rather live there than here on Earth. For there, everything is so vibrantly alive. The Land of the Butterflies awakens a yearning in my soul for home.

Without further ado, meet York Sabastin. He is asleep in his bed in a dormitory in the city of Shiacre, on the Land of the Butterflies. This is part of his story. It begins approximately thirty-four Earth years ago, on a day not unlike today.

Sincerely,

Tara.

1 A DAY OF WORSHIP

Dawn broke across the horizon not unlike any fall morning on Earth. The air was crisp and clean. A gentle breeze rustled the few remaining leaves on the tree outside his window. York awoke. He yawned, stretched, and silently watched the fluttering leaves. Yes, it was good to be home. Home on the Land of the Butterflies, a planet older, wiser, and calmer than he remembered. Torac was light years away. He sighed. His job there was completed. The Panel had honoured his solution. With time and prayers, God would give Torac success.

York was a young man, only forty-six years. He was a Cultural Judge. With the acceptance of his solution, Torac had secured his future and placed him permanently in the ranks of the great judges. That had its drawbacks, of course. His next assignment would likely be harder, more confusing, and the solution…

“Ah, I have not yet received the assignment, and I am itching to solve it!” York chuckled with excitement. “Foolish man,” he admonished to himself, “put those thoughts aside.” He resolved that today, until his meeting with Dale at ten this evening, would be a day of worship.

York threw back his comforter and rose from the platform. Obviously physically fit, he was a handsome man. His shoulders were broad and strong, his hair thick and dark with just a hint of curl. His eyes were the colour of emeralds, and his skin was soft and smooth, yet firm. Being just shy of six feet, perhaps had he been a child you would say a bit gangling. His broad shoulders narrowed down his long back to his small firm buttocks and long, straight legs. As he moved, the sunrays glistened on his body making him appear almost a source of light. It is difficult to describe the colour of his nearly hairless body. Like all people of his race, it appeared to change with the light and his movements. He had a pale olive, eggshell cream or glistening golden, brown, blue, purple, or red hue as he rigorously put himself through his ritual morning callisthenics.

He showered and dressed in the normal fashion of bachelor men of the Land of the Butterflies. First, he donned long heavy tights that exposed his genitals and looked like gartered nylons from the front. His tights were tan with barely noticeable flecks of blue and green, which shone like stars when caught in the right light.

Next, York put on a dark, chocolate coloured, silky shirt with a sheen, which made it glisten in the sunlight. The sleeves were loose and gathered into a tight cuff at his wrists. With a low stand-up collar, the shirt opened down the front to the base of his breastbone. A narrow band of golden ribbon trimmed the collar and placket. Although the placket overlapped and had a beautifully carved, horn shaped, bone button just comfortably below the neckline, York did not fasten it. A wide cummerbund at his waist gathered the base of the shirt. The cummerbund was widest at centre front, perhaps six inches, narrowing to about three inches at the sides and back. It had a pleated appearance and a lower lustre than the rest of the shirt. The cummerbund’s lower edge had a loincloth adequately covering the hole in his tights.

York then chose a garment that appeared to be a straw-coloured, woollen sweater from his closet. As he unfolded it, it looked like a rectangular blanket, very dull and plain with a hole and slot in the centre. This he put over his head. He fastened a loop of leather on the left back to the right back, across his chest and under the front of the tunic. Adjusting the tunic so that the front and back edges matched perfectly (about eight inches above the knee), he tied it at the waist with a braided leather belt which he expertly tied in a flat knot on his right side. The belt was long, and the tassel ends hung about an inch below and above the lower edge of the tunic. York skilfully smoothed the front of the tunic so there were no wrinkles.

York slid his feet into a pair of shoes. The toe was like a safety shoe, very stiff and solid, but ended where an ordinary men’s loafer tongue would start. The heel looked like a leather ankle brace. There remained a space of an inch or two between the top of the toe and the start of the ankle brace. Closely spaced eyelets began at the upper part of the toe piece and continued the whole length of the shoe. A leather lace threaded through the eyelets to hold the shoe tightly on the foot. Tightly lacing each shoe, he wrapped the laces an extra six times around his calf and snapped the laces together just below his knee. There were no knots; the lace ends had small interlocking rings. Across the foot, through a slot on the inside edge of the sole, a final leather strap was drawn, pulled tight, and buckled. The leather of the shoes appeared raw. There was no sheen or smoothness save that worn into them through use.

York was now fully dressed in what would be comparable to a casual suit in North America on Earth.

He ran a comb through his hair. Cut above his eyebrows in a smooth curve to the centre of his ears, it was short at the front and neither touched the top of his collar nor covered his ears. He did not part his hair nor spend much time fussing to get a perfect hair day; a few swipes with the comb was all the attention it would receive.

York brushed his teeth, gargled, and headed for the door. He did not need to shave, as few men of his race grew any facial hairs. It was warm today, his cape unnecessary. However, he took it from the hook on the back of his door and threw it over his shoulder. It was a light cape, more a windbreaker than overcoat.

Single men on the Land of the Butterflies lived in dormitories in the cities. Some dormitories housed only males from a single family, but most were accommodation for small groups of brothers and unrelated men. In general, the occupants had similar professions. The size of the dorm also varied from about a dozen to upwards of a thousand units. York lived in a small dorm having no permanent occupants. Living most of their lives in outer space and on other worlds, Cultural Judges spent only weeks at a time on the planet. The units had no locks; if registered, putting a nameplate into the slot in the door of any empty room made it yours.

The units were simple rooms. They contained a window above a sleeping platform, a shower, tub (or both), a toilet and a sink, a clothes closet, a small wooden desk, and a chair. The desk had a powerful lamp over it, and a light was above the sink. There was no visible plug-ins or gadgetry …no radio, television or stereo. The sleeping platform was a hinged wooden shelf with a rug draped across it, a pillow and large bulky comforter. It covered a large Jacuzzi-type bathtub. For warmth rather than privacy, curtains separated the bathroom fixtures. No one could look in through the windows. Only for looking out, they did not prevent the sun’s rays, with all their glory, from coming into the room.

The rooms were typically taller than they were in width or length. The ceiling was sixteen feet high in York’s room, which was about eight by ten feet. It was a considered a large room. The walls were off-white, the floor a light hardwood, and the ceiling flat and white. It was drab but brighter than a monk’s cubicle, as the outer wall from three feet off the floor to a foot below the ceiling was a large window.

This dormitory had neither a laundry nor a kitchen. York ate at his family’s kitchen at their adolescent dormitory about three miles away. He enjoyed seeing his younger relations. He still found comfort in the den mother’s chatter and often sought the advice of his senior matron, who lived not far from the dorm.

Separated from girls at age six years, boys went to the city under the care of a governess called a den mother. A den mother was a woman past childbearing age and was often an aunt to the five to twenty boys in her care. A senior matron was generally unrelated and served as a confidant to a single boy from age thirteen until he turned twenty-five. The senior matron would guide the boy in the selection of a career and arrange for, or provide, his academic, religious, and personal training. The boys applied for their senior matron. However, the senior matron chose the boy she wished to spend the next twelve years grooming. York felt fortunate. His senior matron, Tara, had selected him when he was only nine. She was a gentle, kind, beautiful woman who was also extremely firm and demanding. As she had visited him often before he had come of age, he had not needed to be frightened as most boys were at thirteen. Giving her much of the credit for his successes thus far in life, he trusted her implicitly.

York silently left his dorm. Having arrived late last night, he did not know if others were about but did not want to disturb them. The weeks of quarantine were behind him. An endless, sometimes foolish waste of six weeks of his life spent delivering and defending his Torac judgement had ended last night with a simple, “Proceed, dismissed”, a few pats on the back from his friends and colleagues, and a few sly snickers about York being gutsy and unorthodox.

York had sighed knowing he had provided God’s solution. Why was it always so hard to convince the Panel it was so? Tara had told him unusual things made people uncomfortable, (he made people uncomfortable), but to never change. The world needed a little shake up now and again. Different would never detract from right. He had slept well with that thought. It was now time for worship.

He walked briskly down the road, around the corner, and down to the sea. There were no temples other than the land itself. Here was a chosen land. His people were a chosen people.

The air grew cold. The wind began to cut through his tunic. York felt chilled at precisely the same step each time he descended the cliff. He stopped, slipped his cloak over his head, and buttoned it tightly around his neck. Unnecessary, the hood hung loose. York faced the sun, barely visible through the branches of the trees. He raised his arms high above his head, tilted his head back to look directly to the heavens, and then slowly let his arms fall until his fingers aligned with the horizon. He closed his eyes and stood motionless and silent. Gradually, his mind cleared. He took deep deliberate breaths. He relaxed his whole body and waited for the shiver to run up his back to signal the conscious presence of God.

York felt weak. The time continued to tick away. The shiver seemed never to come. His arms grew heavier, his fingers tingled, yet still he waited. Without losing faith, he struggled to maintain his balance, fighting exhaustion, and ignoring the kink in his neck while the sun slowly followed its path high into the sky, and continued its western decent well into the afternoon. He was patient. It had been a long time since he had walked this path. God would find him. He had only to wait.

The sun, now high in the sky, disappeared behind a cloud. A leaf brushed against his face. At that moment, a shiver sent a spark of warmth up his back. A hug directly from God felt golden to York. Aloud, York called, “Oh, my God, I am yours!” Then, he bowed his head letting his arms fall slowly and gracefully to his side.

York continued down the path. It was dry, and the leaves crackled under foot. He could feel life all around him. His world was so alive… so vibrant that even the rocks spoke. York loved to walk with God. He felt such peace and comfort. He would stay with God even after this walk ended. It would sustain him for years.

The cloud released the sun as York stepped out upon the deserted beach. He felt the warmth of the sun’s rays drawing him forward and stepped into the water. Cold, it made him gasp for breath, but he kept walking until he was waist deep. Struggling to maintain his balance, the waves splashed over him. One after another they came. York began to shiver. He again raised his head to the sky, stretched his arms above his head and let them fall to the horizon, while bracing his knees against the breaking waves. He waited for the next wave. It came. He leaned forward anticipating the crest of the following wave and let only his lips touch and kiss the crest before he fell into its wash. God cleansed York.

He returned to shore. It was an ordinary shore now. The rocks were just rocks. The birds were just squawking. The wind was just blowing. “I am cold,” York stated calmly to the sky.

It was a long, hard walk back to the dorm. By the time he began climbing back up the cliff, he was no longer dripping wet. At the top, he no longer shivered. His clothes insulated him. The cloak did not let the wind bite through him. If he kept moving, he would begin to warm. No longer plastered against his head, his hair began to dry in the sun’s rays. The salt made his skin itch as his clothes stiffened and dried. Feeling wonderful and alive, York kept a steady pace. In tune with the world around him, he felt loved.

As he neared the busier streets, he picked up his pace. People stopped and stared. He heard whispered, “It is too late in the year to worship that way. He will die, poor man.” Another brought him a cup of steaming lemon water, saying, “Peace, son, I hope you do not have far to go.” An elderly man, with silvery white hair, removed his cloak and wrapped it around York’s shoulders. “Bless you, son,” was all he said.

No one else spoke. People watched him go on his way, attentive lest he stumble and fall to the ground in a faint. York could not help but wonder if he really looked that bad. Without stopping, he thanked his benefactors. Heavy but warm, the cloak’s heat seeped immediately into his soul. The lemonade was warm on his hands. Very welcome, it burnt all the way down his throat. He looked down at the cup in his hand and realized his skin was a dark blue. Stopping, he surveyed the gathering crowd, lifted his arms wide above his head and said, “It is not far, my friends. Thank-you and God bless you.”

Then he continued around the corner, up the street, and into the dorm. As the door closed, he heard a loud cheer. The crowd would now disperse and return to their business. At mealtime, York knew the old man would knock at his door, give him a piece of bread and a cup of hot water then leave with his cloak. The short, bald man would come as well. He would feel his forehead for fever and look into his eyes. York hoped he would smile. Then he, too, would leave, cup in hand.

By now, York’s fingers were numb, and he fumbled trying to get out of the wet clothes repeating, “Less haste, more speed, come on, my lad,” at each time he slipped. In moments, he was again naked, his clothes carefully hung to dry on the hooks at the door and closet. He placed his shoes to dry in the remaining rays of the sun. It would soon be too late in the afternoon for the sun to reach his window.

York lifted the wooden, sleeping platform revealing the tub, hooked it to the wall on both sides, and turned the water on as warm as his hand could stand. He stepped into the tub pulling the curtain around it as he did so. York sealed the drain and lay against the freezing cold tub. Despite the chill, he stayed put and smiled. “Yes, I will live!” Submerging all but his head, the water splashed over and around him. Slowly increasing the temperature, he basked in the remaining rays from the sun reflecting through the steam as it rose all around him. Life was indeed good.

Until he no longer felt chilled to the bone, York remained in the tub. His skin was wrinkled but rosy. While the water drained, he dried himself. After taking time to clean and dry the tub, he lowered the platform and snuggled under his comforter for an hour’s nap.

As predicted, his guests arrived at six o’clock.

The bald man smiled. They left.

York then dressed more formally. His tights were royal blue, his shirt heavy and white, and his tunic silver like a coat of armour. Putting dry laces into his shoes, he put them on and left with his winter cloak buttoned tight, bareheaded, but the hood pulled snugly around his neck like a scarf. He wore black leather gloves and carried a briefcase.

By seven-thirty, he was eating and joking with his brothers in his family’s dormitory kitchen. By nine o’clock, he was on his way again. At ten to ten, he sat outside Dale’s office. His day of worship was over. He was still alive. Many died in worship at this time of year, but he would worship again.