The Rozabal Line Part 3

Father Vincent Matthew Sinclair let go of the receiver and knelt down to pray, but he was unable to; all he could do was weep.

Queens, New York, USA, 2006 In 1852, a city law forbade burials within Manhattan. Manhattanites could be born in Manhattan, could study or work in Manhattan, could get married in Manhattan, could die in Manhattan, but could not be buried in Manhattan.

The rain made the burial a rather messy affair. Both Matthew and Julia Sinclair were to be buried in St John Cemetery in Queens County, where they would join Vincent's paternal grandparents, who had also been buried there.

The presence of Vincent's aunt, Martha, was of great comfort to him. Martha was the significantly younger sister of Vincent's father, Matthew, and had been more of a friend than an aunt to Vincent.

Martha Sinclair had remained a spinster. At the age of thirty-two, she had given up a career in interior design so she could pursue her study of Iyengar Yoga in India. Her travels in India and Nepal had lasted for three whole years and she had grown fond of the subcontinent. This had been followed by a few years in England, where she had become a pract.i.tioner of past-life healing, working in the Spiritualist a.s.sociation of Great Britain.

After spending another year back in India, she had returned rather reluctantly to New York to set up her own yoga academy. Her tryst with India had opened up her mind to philosophy, religion, meditation and spirituality; this fact made her seem eccentric to most men.

She now stood next to Vincent, trying to be the best comfort possible in his grief.

Vincent stood silently in prayer with folded hands, ignoring the rain pouring down his face as his friend and colleague, Father Thomas Manning, read from Psalm 23:4, 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me.'

Vincent's eyes were closed in prayer-induced stupor. Everyone was holding umbrellas and trying as best as possible to stay dry. The light showers were becoming ugly and there were occasional flashes of lightning in the skies above the cemetery. The coffins were being lowered into the ground. Vincent's eyes were tightly shut. He was merely following the words being recited by Father Thomas.

'Daughters of Jerusalem, stop weeping for me! On the contrary, weep for yourselves and for your children!' Vincent snapped out of his trance and opened his eyes wide. These words were totally out of place for a funeral.

The words were not from Father Thomas. His Bible was closed and his lips were not moving. The prayer was already over. Who had said that?

Flas.h.!.+ He felt a camera flash bulb go off inside his head. 'Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?' Vincent was in a daze. Was he hearing things? Was he going mad?

Flas.h.!.+ Jerusalem. Why was he holding a wooden cross? Flas.h.!.+ Wailing women. 'Impale him! Impale him!' Flas.h.!.+ Blood. 'Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?' The scenes were flas.h.i.+ng through Vincent's head at a dizzying pace, much like a silent movie reel.

Vincent stood pale and frozen. He then bent over while standing and drew both his arms close to his right shoulder. He resembled a man carrying a heavy wooden object on his right shoulder. Simon! Alexander! Rufus! What were these names? Vincent fell awkwardly to the ground.

Sympathetic friends a.s.sumed that grief had overtaken the young man and attempted to help him up and comfort him.

Vincent had pa.s.sed out.

The Biblical pa.s.sage of Mark 15:34 of the New Testament reads as follows: And at the ninth hour, Jesus shouted in a loud voice, 'Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?' which is translated as 'My G.o.d, my G.o.d, for what have you forsaken me?'

Vincent woke up in a brightly lit room of Queens Hospital Center. He first saw the anxious face of Father Thomas Manning. He then saw a nurse standing with his Aunt Martha. Next he saw the white light fixture on the ceiling.

An intravenous line was attached to his arm. Patches were attached to his torso to monitor his heart rate, blood pressure and lung function.

Vincent was mumbling incoherently. Father Thomas put his ear close to Vincent's face to understand what he was trying to say. He was uttering a few words sporadically. '. . .impressed . . . service . . . pa.s.ser-by . . . Simon . . . Cyrene . . . country . . . the father . . . Alexander . . . Rufus . . . lift . . . torture . . . stake . . .'

Father Thomas immediately recognised the Biblical pa.s.sage that spoke of Jesus's journey through the streets of Jerusalem on his way to Golgotha to be crucified. Since Jesus had become physically too weak after the trauma that he had endured, the Romans had ordered a man called Simon to help him bear the burden of the cross.

The pa.s.sage that Vincent seemed to be muttering was: 'Also, they impressed into service a pa.s.ser-by, a certain Simon of Cyrene, coming from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, that he should lift up his torture stake.'

Why was Vincent sputtering these words? 'Relax, Vincent. You have been subjected to trauma, shock and exhaustion. You need rest. You collapsed at the cemetery and we had to bring you here to recuperate,' began Father Thomas.

Vincent couldn't care less. His shoulder was hurting. His arms were aching. He could hear screams and jeers. He was sweating. He was walking on blood! He was carrying a cross!

Aunt Martha was lying down on the sofa in the hospital room when Vincent stirred. The doctor had prescribed Dalmane shots to ensure that he slept calmly. It was around eleven in the morning.

'Good morning, sweetheart,' said Aunt Martha as she sat up on the sofa. Even though she had been up all night, Martha still looked fresh. The years of yoga and meditation had obviously helped her; she certainly did not look to be in her mid-forties. Her youthful skin, auburn hair, pert nose and her well-toned 34-24-34 figure ensured that she did not look a day over thirty-five.

Vincent responded. 'Hi, Nana. What's happened to me? Am I sick?' Martha was relieved to hear Vincent calling her by the name that Matthew's entire family had for her-Nana. It obviously meant that Vincent was recovering. Martha got up from the sofa and walked to the side of the bed.

'You had a shock during the funeral, Vincent. You pa.s.sed out. Poor baby, you've been in and out of consciousness for the past two days. We couldn't feed you through your mouth so we had to nourish you intravenously.'

Vincent thought back to the funeral and said, 'Nana, where's Father Thomas? I need to speak to him.'

Martha replied, 'He was here last night, baby. He left rather late. I think he'll come back to see you around lunchtime. What did you need to ask him?'

'Nana, I think I'm going crazy. At the funeral, before I fainted, I thought I saw visions. They were so real it was scary. I was even more scared because I thought I saw myself in some of the pictures that flashed before my eyes,' said Vincent.

Martha held Vincent's hand as she said, 'Vincent, sometimes when we confront shocks in our lives, they tend to electrify portions of our brain that we normally don't use. This can sometimes bring older memories to the forefront, memories that have been long suppressed.'

'This wasn't an older memory, Nana. I have never been to Jerusalem, yet I could see it in vivid detail. This wasn't a memory. It was something else . . . I just can't explain it. The scary bit is that I saw myself carrying the cross of Jesus!'

Martha looked straight into Vincent's eyes and asked, 'It could be your imagination . . . As a priest you have read virtually everything there is to learn about Jesus. Some of those stored facts could trigger visualisations. Possible, isn't it?'

'You're absolutely right, Nana. It's the shock that's causing hallucinations. It's nothing for us to really worry about,' said Vincent, just about convincing himself.

Martha rang the bell at Vincent's side so the nurse could sponge him and arrange for some breakfast. Though she didn't comment any further, she couldn't but help remember Vincent as a small boy standing next to the sweet little Kate, mumbling something in another language that only she had been able to understand.

'Talitha koum. Talitha koum. Talitha koum.'

New York City, USA, 2012 It had now been six years since his parents' death. Martha Sinclair and Vincent Sinclair were sitting together in the trendy York Avenue studio of Martha's yoga academy. Since Vincent had been discharged from hospital six years ago, Martha had succeeded in convincing him that he needed to recharge himself by practising Pranayama, the ancient yogic science of breathing.

Since the pa.s.sing of his parents, Vincent had made it a point to visit Aunt Martha each week. He looked forward to these visits because she was a lot of fun. Moreover, she was the only real family he had left.

Aunt and nephew were sitting with legs crossed facing one another. The cla.s.sic yogic position called Padmasan was not as easy as Nana had made it out to be. The right foot had to be under the left knee, and the left foot was to be kept under the right knee. Easier said than done!

'Breathing is life. But how much do we notice it? For example, do you observe or notice that you use only one nostril at a time to breathe?' said Martha to her student. Vincent was sceptical.

Martha quickly continued, 'At any given moment, only the right or left nostril will be breathing for you. Did you know that the active nostril changes approximately every ninety minutes during the twenty-four-hour day? It's only for a short period that both nostrils breathe together. The ancient Indian yogis knew all this and much more. They discovered and explored the intimate relations.h.i.+p between one's breath and one's mind. They knew that when the mind is agitated, breathing almost certainly gets disturbed. They also knew that if one's breath were held too long, the mind would have a tendency to get disturbed. Since the yogis were fundamentally attempting to control the mind, they figured that controlling the breath could possibly regulate the mind,' she concluded.

She had succeeded in holding his interest. Slowly but surely, Vincent Sinclair began to learn how to breathe and relax.

Not for long.

Central Park covers 843 acres or around 6 per cent of Manhattan. The park stretches from 59th Street in the south, to 110th Street at the northern end, and from 5th Avenue on the east side, to 8th Avenue on the west.

As a child, Vincent had loved visiting the Central Park Zoo. In later adult years, he had enjoyed attending performances at the park's Delacorte Theatre and indulging in the occasional culinary treat at the park's most famous restaurant, Tavern on the Green.

Martha's regimen of yoga and meditation was working wonders for him and he was feeling energetic as he headed for a quiet spot in the park's Reservoir. The Reservoir, located in the heart of Central Park, was quite a distance away from any of the bordering streets and was one of the most tranquil areas within the park. It was here that Vincent found a bench to try out the Vipa.s.sana techniques that Martha had been teaching him for the past few months.

In Pali, the original language of Buddhism, Vipa.s.sana meant 'insight'. It was also more commonly used to describe one of India's most ancient meditation techniques, which had been rediscovered by the Buddha.

Vincent sat down on the bench and then drew up his legs so that he could a.s.sume the Padmasan position that Nana had taught him. He then closed his eyes and began to focus on his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. As he settled into a relaxed state of mind there was a familiar flas.h.!.+ The same d.a.m.n flash from the funeral six years ago!

d.a.m.n! Vincent thought. I thought that the craziness was over and done with!

Blood. Flas.h.!.+ Wounded soldiers . . . bandages. Flas.h.!.+ A blood-red cross with equal arms. Flas.h.!.+ A Ba.s.sano portrait . . . an elegant lady. Flas.h.!.+ A stately house . . . reception rooms on the ground and first floors. Flas.h.!.+ Number 18. Flas.h.!.+ London streets. Flas.h.!.+ Iron fencing . . . an 'S' logo. Flas.h.!.+ Indian antiques. Flas.h.!.+ Parties, food, musicians, soldiers. Flas.h.!.+ An old LaSalle ambulance. Flas.h.!.+ Buckingham Palace. Flas.h.!.+ Bell . . . Grave . . . so soon?

What was that? Vincent opened his eyes in mortal fear. Why was this happening to him? Bell . . . Grave . . . so soon? What in heaven's name did that mean? Was he to die? Was this a premonition? And why was he seeing images of London streets and stately homes? Vincent Sinclair was convinced more than ever that he was going mad.

He got up and started running wildly. Luckily he was on the periphery of the reservoir of Central Park, which was mainly used by joggers.

No one found it odd to see him running. They thought he was running to exercise himself. How could they possibly know that he was running from himself?

'Help me, Nana. I'm going stark, raving mad. Either that, or I'm possessed. Do you think I should call Father Thomas Manning for an exorcism? What is wrong with me? Why am I seeing strange things and hearing strange words?' Vincent was on the verge of hysteria.

Nana realised she needed to calm him down. 'Relax, sweetheart. It isn't uncommon to have recollections of events, things, people or places that are hidden in our brains. In fact, it isn't strange to remember past lives either. Unfortunately, you're a Catholic priest . . . how on earth can I possibly discuss past life issues with you when you have closed your mind to such possibilities?'

Vincent's eyes widened. 'You think I could be having past-life recollections? But surely that's nonsense, Nana. The Bible says it is appointed unto men to die once, and after death comes judgement.'

'Listen, Vincent, I know I will always be the eccentric, esoteric, Eastern philosophy-espousing crazy aunt to you, but isn't it possible that what you have learnt so far is not the whole truth? Isn't it possible that there are things that you are yet to learn?' asked Martha rather innocently.

'Sure, Nana, but I can't question my faith. My faith is all that I have.'

Martha said, 'Okay. Let me try to help you see things my way. We all know the bit from the Bible about the blind man . . . you know, the bit when Jesus's disciples asked him: "Rabbi, who has sinned, this man or his parents, that he should be born blind?" Tell me, Vincent, why would the disciples have asked this question if there was no belief in a past life? Huh?'

Vincent remained silent in thought.

Martha continued, 'You probably remember the pa.s.sage where Jesus says: "I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of G.o.d unless he is born again." Tell me, sweetheart, how is it possible to be born again unless you have more than one life?'

Vincent was ready with arguments of his own.

'Nana, the fact that the disciples asked Jesus about the reasons for the blind man's condition only means that reincar-nation as a concept was alive in his era. It does not mean that Jesus believed in it. Also, when Jesus talked about being born again he was referring to spiritual awakening, not birth in the literal sense.'

Martha was just as determined to have her way. She countered defiantly, 'So what else do you think can explain your strange visions and flashes?'

Vincent was quiet. He really didn't have a logical answer.

'May I suggest something? Sometimes, a past-life memory can be triggered by a place or an object. Is there something that you can recall from your recent flashes?'

'The only thing I can recall seeing in today's visions is Buckingham Palace. I've never been there . . . but I've seen it on postcards. Let me think . . . what else? At Mom and Dad's funeral, I remember seeing flashes of Jerusalem-at least I think it was Jerusalem. The rest of the stuff that I saw can't really be pinned down to a definite place.'

Martha quickly cut in. 'I think it's time you and your aunt had a vacation in London. What do you say, Vincent?' She winked at him, a wide grin on her face.

'I thought I was the crazy one! Are you out of your mind, Nana? I don't believe in this past life nonsense. In any case, I can't afford it; I'm a priest, remember? We don't really earn all that much!'

'Oh shut up, Vincent! Your Nana has made some serious money from her Eastern mumbo-jumbo. I'm paying. So you d.a.m.n well get your holy a.s.s on that blessed flight, Father Vincent Sinclair!'

Chapter Six.

Harare, Zimbabwe, 1965 Terry Acton was born on 11 November, the very day that Ian Smith, Prime Minister of Rhodesia, made a unilateral declaration of independence for the country.

Terry's father had moved to Rhodesia from England upon being offered a position at the De Beers Mining Company. He had married the daughter of his British supervisor a year after moving and had decided to make Rhodesia his home. Terry had been born two years later.

Unfortunately, Rhodesia was in turmoil. The government of Prime Minister Ian Smith was a white minority running an apartheid regime. The country was in civil war with the rebels being led by Robert Mugabe, who eventually seized power in 1980.

Mugabe's regime was one of corruption, sleaze, torture, and dictators.h.i.+p. The Actons were forced to leave the country and return to England in 1991.

London, UK, 1991 Terry's parents ended up losing their lifesavings when they fled Zimbabwe. Circ.u.mstances made them poor East-Enders, living in the working-cla.s.s borough of Hackney.

The economy was in recession and Terry's father was lucky to get a blue-collar factory job at Lesney's. Lesney's factory was located in Hackney Wick, and produced Matchbox toys such as miniature cars and trucks. Lesney's was the main employer in the area; in fact, it was pretty much the only employer in the area.

Senior Acton had not taken the knocks well. He became an obnoxious, red-nosed drunk who excelled at beating his wife often and his kids occasionally, depending upon the level of alcohol in his bloodstream. Little Terry was a frail and frightened little boy who suffered from asthma, a chronic respiratory condition that weakened him further.

Terry's mother was an angel from heaven who somehow managed to lock away her emotional and physical scars to produce the finest Yorks.h.i.+re pudding, rhubarb crumble and shepherd's pie in England for her son. Terry loved returning home from school to his mother, but he hated his father coming home.

He was relieved when his father shot himself when the Lesney's factory, one of the last few remaining businesses in Hackney, shut shop and made him redundant.

Knocks in his early years would make Terry even more determined to succeed at school and eventually in life. The Rhodes Scholars.h.i.+p to Oxford two years later was his ticket to the future.

He silently thanked Cecil John Rhodes.

Cecil John Rhodes, the founder of the state of Rhodesia, which eventually became Zimbabwe, had made his millions by shrewdly investing in the diamond mines of southern Africa. In 1880, he had created the De Beers Mining Company, which would eventually bring him great power, fortune and recognition.

In 1877, Rhodes would contend: 'We British are the finest race in the world; and that the more of the world we inhabit, the better it is for the human race.'

Rhodes would die young at the age of just forty-nine. In his last will and testament, he would leave his fabulous wealth to create a secret society: one that would allow Britannia to rule the world. It was projected by Rhodes that by 1920 there would be around 2,000 to 3,000 men in their prime scattered all over the globe, each having been mathematically selected to achieve the goals set out by Rhodes.

Rhodes had confided to a close friend that it was necessary to create 'a society copied . . . from the Jesuits . . . a secret society organised, like Loyola's, supported by the acc.u.mulated wealth of those whose aspiration is to do something . . . a scheme to take the government of the whole world!'

The Rhodes Scholars.h.i.+ps, which would become very famous, would merely be a tool to recruit the most promising and bright future leaders-in whichever arena they chose to work-in politics, business, government, banking, finance, arts, science, medicine, technology or social work.

The forty-second President of the United States, Bill Clinton, would be a Rhodes Scholar. His administration alone would have more than twenty other Rhodes Scholars.

In 1993, one of the new recruits into Rhodes' secret society was Terry Acton. He was one of the youngest and brightest members of this elite group, accepted into Oxford to pursue an undergraduate degree in psychology. Another recruit was an incredibly intelligent American woman. Her name was Alissa Kaetzel.

Two years into his Oxford degree, Terry was offered the opportunity of a lifetime-a chance to obtain an advanced degree in clinical psychology at Yale. Terry grabbed it with both hands.

Alissa stayed on at Oxford to complete her M.Phil in political theory, comparative government and international relations.

New Haven, Connecticut, USA, 1993 Terry's Rhodes Scholars.h.i.+p had opened a new door, not only to Oxford and Yale, but also to Yale's secret society-The Order of Skull & Bones.

The previous year, he had climbed to the tower of Weir Hall overlooking the Bones courtyard and had heard blood-curdling cries from within the structure as fifteen newcomers were put through their initiation.

Terry's moment had arrived on 'tap night' when fifteen seniors led by Stephen Elliot arrived outside his room and pounded on the door. When he opened his door, Stephen slammed Terry's shoulder and shouted, 'Skull and Bones: Do you accept?'

Bewildered, Terry mumbled, 'Accept.'

He had been handed a message wrapped with a black ribbon and sealed with black wax with the skull-and-crossbones emblem and the number 322. The message mentioned a time and a place for Terry to appear on initiation night.