The Amatu: Age of Aquarius

By Gregory Preisel

Centuries after man plunged off its pedestal, it humbly goes about its existence within the skeleton of its past society. Most now go about their lives either unknowing or uninterested in their history. Some embrace the reality of a new world, while others are determined to regain man’s majesty.
Yet, what is truly historical is that whether man is aware of it or not, the Gods who had seemed to forsake the human race have decided that the time is now for them to impose their will.
A fast moving epic for the info-overloaded generation bent on instant gratification. Follow a historian of a world long gone as he discovers his role in the birth of a new one, but this time around, “Men of God” takes on a whole new meaning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory Preisel
• Release date: Mar 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310673511

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Amatu

Age of Aquarius

Dedicated to Roberta Preisel, whose wisdom, critiques and encouragement made the completion of this story possible.

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The Amatu; Age of Aquarius

Published by Gregory Preisel

Copyright 2016 Gregory Preisel

Prologue

Far into the mountains, beyond days of towering black and blue spruce and an afternoon across a glacial lake, that mirrored those same mountains, sits a moderately comfortable cabin, made from those same spruce, sitting not far from the shore and partially surrounded by an alcove, weathered into a looming cliff of granite.

Outside this cabin, is a beautiful woman near a pile of freshly split fire wood, tending to a muscular horse, jet black with tufts of white about its hooves. The horse dwarfed her, but was docile in her presence.

Within this cabin beyond the remote forest, pristine lake and beautiful woman, a fire smoldered, not within a fireplace but within the heart of an old man,

For years, others would seek him out. Lay their footprints through whatever forests, disturb any body of water, and burden a beautiful woman, all to pester a temperamental soul beyond its better years, only to hear a story few manage to believe or pass along after hearing.

So, to bring peace to himself and the beautiful woman, and for the sakes of the lakes and trees and all that may be disturbed by those who incessantly pester, he pokes the fire within, picks up the ink he has owned for quite some time, and puts it to parchment, which had been whimsically provided by the beautiful woman with an effortless grin.

Chapter 1: Change Is Hard

Did it all have to happen? That’s the major question around which the majority of my studies had revolved. Merely a moment ago in the human record its own existence was nearly brought to an end.

Some of my teachers believed we were doomed once man discovered pointy stones. Others blamed the implosion directly on actions taken in the 21st century. When it comes down to it, focusing ones studies on human history is probably a fruitless endeavor. No one really cares. It may as well have all occurred on another planet. I should have concentrated in agriculture. Everyone appreciates food.

It was a completely different world, where most people living today could not even begin to get their head around; coincidentally my life would go through a similar cataclysm.

I was orphaned early in life and was raised by the professors of Magnum. Since I literally grew up living at the university, it was of little surprise to anyone that I would become an instructor, which is a rather distinguished set up in Magnum.

With a teaching position one could expect to receive a fair amount of respect, and if moderately charming, the favor of multiple women. There was some old joke about them always being willing to learn as long as they liked your curriculum.

That all eventually went to the hells when a final, improbable disaster, in a series of unfortunate occurrences, blindsided me and forced my hand in a fashion few could possible relate to.

I started as a historian and over time have written a rather interesting history of my own, which started on a foggy night in June, the tail end of the summer and the start of the wet season. I left the university and started home, as usual, yet it was one of the two times of a year when the evening mist would occasionally fill the low lying areas of the city.

I could have taken the train but no, I was feeling pensive and preferred silence. I therefore, decided to walk along the unsafe path at that unsafe time, but after all it was a safe city. Only after discovering more about people in general, could I look back and see the foolishness in that decision.

As a grown man, I needed a place away from the University to keep the things that make a young man’s life worth living, somewhat private. When leaving work late, or when I was feeling particularly energetic, I would walk within the usually peaceful train banks toward my loft.

The train banks were two narrow u shaped valleys, covered in soft grass that ran along with a single track that criss-crossed the city. They were six feet deep and about eight feet at their widest, dividing whatever it was in the city from the tracks and the two double-headed trams that moved along them eight times a day.

It doesn’t sound like much but it was the only running train in the world. I didn’t mention that it was foggy merely to set the mood. On nights like that, the fog seemed to collect at its thickest in these small valleys beside the tracks. During the day, it was serene, with wild flowers and annual visits from butterflies.

It was a pretty popular shortcut and a wonderful hunting ground for women during the spring. When it gets damp though, the path goes from romance novel to horror story. I thought it was neat not being able to see where I was going.

I'll spare you the suspense. I was attacked, grabbed from behind and then stabbed several times while my arms were pinned to my sides. The idiots robbed someone who had nothing on him.

I had nothing of value so they ended up killing me for a feather quilt pen. Come to think of it, why even bother to rob someone who seemed like he couldn’t afford the train in the first place? Nevertheless, oddly, all I could think of as I bled out were of the white lilies that grew there and of the times where I would lay myself down in that very same area. Under the sun, looking into the grass, I liked to examine the lilies from a point of view that made them look like luminescent giants.

I did not wonder about the afterlife or what was to transpire in my absence, yet I dwelled upon the thought of those flowers. For when a flower died, did it die then wilt, or wilt as it died? It sure as the nine hells sucked to wilt alive.

I may have woken later that evening, or perhaps even the next, I did not know. I did know something horrific definitely did occur. For my shirt was still drenched in blood and there were all these cute little holes. I mentally freaked out for a moment, but soon fell into a stupor.

I shuffled to the end of the bank toward the city's center, and slowly clawed my way out and onto the road that circled the large one hundred and thirty foot tower. The tower was focal point of the city that would cast its glow over the city during the closing hours of the day and on moonless nights.

It held not only a pitch pit on the top that could be ignited but also a large electric lamp. The three foot diameter glass orb was called The Moon of Magnum by the sailors that had navigated the Bengal shores.

The trains would run through the first floor of the steel monument but, besides a station, it also housed a place for the civil engineers to organize. The engineers handled policing and emergencies of all kinds, from unexpected childbirths to drunken disputes over spilled beer. Despite things being hazy, and not being able to think straight, I guess I thought my situation had qualified as an emergency.

I pulled up and studied the front of my bloody shirt, holding it up to my face with the light from the beacon shining through.

It was a surreal moment. I tasted my blood on my teeth, felt the stickiness of it all over and smelled the sickly-sweet fragrance of my own death. Through those holes, I could see the glorious mascot of the city aglow in electric light like some kind of angel.

Then I was slammed into by a car. There had to be less than a hundred fully functional cars in the world and even less that had a fuel source, but one managed to run me over. I don’t really remember too much, except that when I landed on the ground, there was a sickening thunk. I don’t recall much about the car, or pain. I just couldn’t help but look at the lights of the tower, as everything faded to black.

Chapter 2: Not a Fan of Cemeteries

Oddly enough, I thought I had arranged for cremation in the event of an untimely death. I sometimes still wonder how that would have worked out. However, I awoke in a coffin.

Now, as insane as it seems, the situation actually made more sense than one would think.

Looking back I could have lived a lifestyle that invited jealousy, if it hadn’t been for periodic miseries that prevented any true normalcy in my young life.

After being born prematurely with small odds of survival, I somehow managed to live to later battle through some sort of childhood cancer, only to have my parents pass shortly after my recovery.

When the professors at the university took me in, things went comparatively smooth for a while. School, women, and then I made the transition from student to teacher.

Then, a few years back, I caught a nasty affliction they call spinal meningitis that eventually put me on my deathbed.

One day, after a week bedridden wavering between agony and sedation, things were, different. The nurses seemed not to acknowledge my presence. No one had bothered to change the linens and though I had asked several times prior to no avail, they finally moved my bed close to the window as the skies grew dim enough for my eyes to stand the light.

I was stiff, numb. I felt like a corpse, and was thankful to be too sedated to think much on how I would most likely soon be one. But, right at its worst, I awoke one day and was fine; a bit sore, hungry and itching to get out into the sunlight. My doctors argued about miracles, medical abnormalities and the like. Frankly, I didn’t give a damn- I was alive.

Considering it all, my emotional state upon awaking underground was more of terrible epiphany than surprise. It was now pretty obvious that, in the least, death was something that would not come easy to me. Which was wonderful, as long as I wasn't buried alive.

At first I was calm, I assessed the situation then reflected upon my times in guts, an aptly named adolescent support group I had led once a month, where kids discussed their fears and personal issues.

There had to be a half a dozen kids every semester, who suffered from some form of claustrophobia, and each and every one of them had the coffin dream eventually. Sometimes, just the mention of it during one session led to four or five complaining about having the nightmare the next week. Well, now I was living their nightmare. And over and over again I tell you. What had been my fear you ask? Necrophobia.

I allowed myself an unproductive, five-second freak out where I screamed and banged at the cover. At least it wasn’t one of those gaudy old-fashioned coffins made out of a wasteful amount of wood or even worse, metal. No, this had little padding and even less room than one would expect. It was typical for the recently deceased to be burned or merely wrapped in long lengths of beautiful, sometimes embroidered cloth while others like my university professors still preferred a timber box.

They were usually made of one layer of wood, which was good news. There was no wicked way I was moving my legs enough to get any kicking action going, which was bad news.

The absence of padding led me to assume it was a closed casket ceremony. A fluffy interior would have gone far in keeping my hands in one piece, at least for a while, for I was left with no other choice but to break this wood board above me with ten-inch thrusts of my fists, to hopefully release possibly hundreds of pounds of dirt, directly on my face. Magnificent.

My hands were a bloody mess and I didn’t make much progress by the time I ran out of air and blacked out.

The point of suffocation is ironic, you’re dying due to a lack of oxygen, but your lungs feel as if they were engulfed in white flame. When I awoke again, I looked at my hands and they were healed. It was probably a logical side effect to the whole rising from the dead thing, but I was still in a coffin and, lo’ and behold, still out of air. I began to cry and once again died painfully.

That was going to be the last of that. There was no time to panic, to curse gods, or pray. There was only escape or a limbo of insanity.

The third time I came to, I realized the presence of the huge piece of metal that hung around my neck. A heavy, gaudy, four-point star I was awarded when I became a professor. I had never worn the ugly thing.

Only the really old teachers would trade comfort for esteem. It was one of the worst examples of jewelry I had ever seen. The thing was five inches long and looked like a compass. Although I normally found it an unsuitable accessory for just about everything, I was pretty ecstatic to have something hard and pointy right then. Those old stubborn elders saved my ass with their traditions.

I began carving a square, off center towards my good arm. I figured that once I could let enough dirt in to get one arm out, I might just have enough leverage to throw my weight into the coffin’s cover.

After that, it would be merely the issue of getting the dirt above me, below. So, at that moment and from every awakening after, I went at that wood like the mad man I truly was by that point.

The next in the series of strange things to happen to me while trapped in my grave was that, every time I awoke it seemed I had more air. At one point I spent my time of consciousness ignoring the hole I was boring into the wood and concentrated on finding where the air was coming from. There was no source of fresh air. The adrenalin fueled frenzy was blunted by a combination of relief and confusion. But eventually, the world still faded to black.

When I wasn’t facing certain death, I spent my childhood suffering from a depression of sorts, and in my adolescent years, it began to manifest itself in bad dreams. In my early twenties, I started meditation to help things but it only made the dreams worse. I soon started to get visions and hear voices during my meditations.

Sometimes I would