Obelisk - A Tale of Spiritual Warfare

By Robert Girard

OBELISK - A Tale of Spiritual Warfare reveals:
Knowledge Hidden from the Uninitiated for centuries.
The path the Knights Templar took when they disappeared and where that Secret Society is today.
How the dark arts of Occultism were brought to Early America by the colonists.
How the ‘New Jerusalem’ of Sir Francis Bacon was established between the Secret Societies of Europe and select Native American tribes.
How these events are connected to Bible Prophecy.
And
What you must not do, to avoid the wrath of God in the coming New World Order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483591247

Book preview

coincidental.

1

Oh my God, he’s got a bomb! The young mother screamed as she grabbed her baby from a stroller and ran from the park bench.

Everybody stay back! the man at the obelisk yelled. Everybody stay back and no one gets hurt!

The mother watched as he wrapped a chain around the obelisk and another around his waist before snapping a padlock onto the chains binding him to the stone tower. In one abrupt move he threw off his jacket. He was wearing a suicide bombers vest made of black Kevlar with C-4 explosives in the pockets. Taped to the front of the vest was a white placard displaying large black letters that read: LVXXVI.

The quiet morning in Central Park abruptly ended. Within moments, sirens were wailing and the serene setting was turned into mayhem. Dozens of New York City policemen were quickly joined by S.W.A.T. teams and forces from Homeland Security pushing people back from the obelisk and securing the area. Within the hour it had escalated into a world-wide news event being carried by all the major news networks. Helicopters circled Central Park, hovering over the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hoping to get a clear shot of the terrorist threatening to blow up the Egyptian granite monument known as Cleopatra’s Needle.

Snipers were positioned on the rooftop of the museum with high powered rifles trained on the suspect. Television cameras zoomed in on the C-4 plastic explosives attached to the monument at each corner. The lone terrorist held a small trigger device in his right hand.

Don’t come near me, the man shouted, as he pointed the trigger mechanism at the snipers on top of the museum.

If I let go of this button, this precious stone will be turned to dust.

Thousands of people now gathered and watched from a safe distance, only the police and the New York City Bomb Squad were close enough to talk to the man. An agent in plain clothes held up his hands and took a few steps toward the bomber.

Calm down son, let’s talk

Stop right there! he screamed again. His right hand holding the trigger switch was shaking as he wiped the sweat running into his eyes with the other hand. It’s too late to talk.

The bomber made no demands and gave no explanation for his actions as his eyes scanned the crowd.

Get away from this unholy stone before I blow it back to sand. I’m going to detonate this bomb at exactly twelve noon.

Monitors all around the world showed the strange scene unfolding in Central Park as the desperate bomber demanded everyone stay away. Using a split screen, CNN cameras kept a vigil on the digital time clock in Time’s Square. It read: 11:59

***

Glenn Giordano hurried along the walkway that cut diagonally across the main courtyard of the Central Campus of the University of Michigan known as ‘The Diag’. He was headed toward the State Street business area to catch some lunch when he noticed a crowd of about twenty people gathered in front of the electronics store. Glenn joined them as they stared at the display of nine large flat-screen televisions stacked three high and three wide, carrying a live news report from New York City.

What’s going on? Glenn asked of one of the students crowded around the display window.

A terrorist is threatening to blow something up in New York City!

Glenn moved through the crowd to get a better view of the televisions. The split screens showed a man wearing a suicide vest chained to the stone monument on one side while the other showed a large digital clock in Times Square as it turned from 11:59 to 12:00. Several people in the crowd gasped.

It’s twelve o’clock! someone shouted.

The television cameras zoomed in on the bomber. He held his hand high and released the button. Nothing happened. The cameras pulled in closer on the face of the terrorist who acted as surprised as everyone else. He pushed and released the button once more and then began fumbling with the wires attached to his vest. There was no sound on the televisions, but Glenn imagined the sound of the single gunshot that found its mark between the eyes of the terrorist. He slumped over, arms lifeless at his sides, the monument intact.

Oh my God, the same young woman said as she lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

There’s one terrorist who got what he deserved, another student stated coldly.

The television crews continued their live coverage as the Bomb Squad cautiously approached the dead man, still wired with explosives and chained to the obelisk. One television that featured closed-captioning displayed a text of the full report below the picture. The text read, Police have no information as to the lone bombers motives or affiliations.

Blood ran down the deceased bombers vest, obscuring the only clue that might explain this tragedy.

It’s a Roman Numeral, someone said.

What does it mean? another asked.

The closed captioning on the screen displayed the same question. "Police are attempting to understand the meaning of the Roman Numerals displayed on the bomber’s vest.

Glenn froze for a moment, staring at the televisions, scanning each one to make sure he was seeing the same letters on every set. He was sure. Glenn stepped away from the crowd and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. He touched 411. Glenn knew what the letters meant and he understood the bomber’s motives.

New York City Police Department please

2

Sunrise in Vatican City found Cardinal Salvatore Romano in the courtyard of St. Peter’s Basilica. Each morning he would rise before dawn so he could be carefully positioned at Vaticano Obelisk, the ancient Egyptian obelisk placed in the square when the basilica was built.

As the warm sun rose, he would place himself so he could cast his shadow onto the cold stone edifice that housed the spirit of the sun god the Cardinal knew as Lucifer. It was a metaphorical attempt to fuse his spirit with the spirit in the obelisk.

After an incantation to his god, the Cardinal carefully checked the surrounding area to be sure he was not being observed. When he felt the moment was right, and as his shadow embraced the obelisk, he removed a scarlet handkerchief from the vest pocket of his floor length cassock. He carefully unfolded the handkerchief to reveal a single consecrated host. He had taken the host from the ciborium where his aide, Father Angelo Rossi, placed the unused communion wafers from his morning Mass.

It had been years since the Cardinal had been able to successfully consecrate a host because of his devotion to Lucifer so Cardinal Romano would steal consecrated hosts from Father Angelo to use in his obscene obelisk ritual. His daily visit to the ciborium was simplified by sending the priest on some useless task until the foul deed was done. It was easy.

Romano was amused by the naiveté of Father Angelo Rossi. When not running errands and reconciling accounts for the Cardinal, Father Angelo kept himself busy conducting daily Mass, working on his studies, and following his passion for visiting the many Marian Apparition sites around the world.

Cardinal Romano considered the appearances of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and her dire warnings to pray often to avoid the snares of Satan as too little, too late. He felt confident he would soon be empowered to perform feats that would dwarf, by comparison, any Marian apparition.

He faced the east, his demented smile illuminated by the rising sun, his shadow cast against the obelisk. With a subtle gesture, one he had perfected, the Cardinal casually dropped the wafer of bread consecrated to become the body and blood of Jesus Christ to the pavement at the foot of the obelisk. In the final act of desecration offered as an oblation to Lucifer, Cardinal Romano placed the heel of his shoe on the host and applied the full weight of his ample body, grinding the wafer into the pavement.

***

Father Angelo Rossi greeted each day at Vatican City in prayer as he rose before dawn to perform his spiritual exercises. The priest devoted his first waking hours to prayer and spiritual preparation before facing the day ahead of him. First he confessed his sins. Next, he offered himself as a living sacrifice to his Lord, Jesus Christ. Finally, he said Mass and received the Eucharist in the private chapel of the living quarters he shared with the other priests that served the Bishops and Cardinals of the Magisterium. It was his desire to begin and end each day on his knees thanking and giving glory to God for the many graces bestowed on him.

It was on just such a morning, during his spiritual exercises, when Father Angelo experienced a life changing moment. With his eyes closed, he had been contemplating the Mystery of the Eucharist, when he felt compelled to leave his prayers and look out the window onto the plaza of St. Peter’s Basilica.

At first the good father resisted, he was used to temporal thoughts disrupting his prayerful endeavors so he redoubled his mental focus on the contemplation of the Eucharist. It was no use. One thought persistently pushed to the forefront of his mind, he must go the window and look out to the plaza below.

He began to finger his rosary as if clutching the beads tighter would push out any worldly thoughts when he heard a small still voice say, He desecrates the Host!

Though the voice he heard was barely audible in his mind, it startled him to the point that he jumped to his feet and stood at attention. He strained his hearing in an attempt to detect the voice again.

He heard nothing.

Once again, he felt the irresistible urge to go and look out the window. In two quick steps he was at the window with his hands gripping the stonework frame. The rising sun blinded him briefly and made it difficult to focus in on the plaza below. He held up one hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked down on the solitary figure standing at the base of the obelisk in the center of St. Peter’s Square.

He immediately recognized the only person on the plaza at this early hour was His Eminence, Cardinal Salvatore Romano. As he watched him, he saw the Cardinal give the slightest glance over his shoulder and position himself directly between the rising sun and the obelisk.

He watched as the Cardinal took a scarlet handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded it, and with his hands down at his side, dropped something to the ground. He appeared to step on it as he turned as if were stepping on a lit cigarette. Father Angelo somehow understood what he had just seen. He knew the Cardinal was performing the most evil of deeds and he knew God wanted him to witness the trespass.

No! Stop! Father Angelo screamed into the leaded glass window in front of him.

He could not believe his eyes. This can’t be!

Father Angelo leapt back from the window with a start and was back on his heels in a flash trembling with fear. A prayer erupted from his consciousness.

God, help me.

Instantly, Father Angelo knew what he had to do. With renewed courage and an unstoppable will, Father Angelo tucked a white handkerchief into his pocket and headed out the door of the chapel in the Apostolic Palace. He quickly and quietly made his way down the rear stair case and briskly walked to the base of the obelisk where, to his horror, there on the terrazzo pavement was a solitary, crushed host.

With tears running down his face, he carefully picked up the host that still held the mark of the Cardinal’s heel and gently placed it into the clean linen handkerchief. He held the contents of the linen cloth to his heart and retreated back to the chapel where, after a brief prayer, he consumed the host.

Father Angelo added one more spiritual exercise to his morning routine. Each day at sunrise he would peer out the same east facing window to observe the Cardinal’s daily trespass. Each day Father Angelo would retrieve the desecrated host from the foot of that image of jealousy, the Vaticano Obelisk.

He came to a new revealed understanding of Cardinal Salvatore Romano.

3

I stood with my father in a brightly lit afternoon, looking at the row of distinguished looking gentlemen posed in front of what I took to be an English manor. I wondered where this was. I wondered why they stood in a line, from left to right, looking at me. I did not recognize any of them, or the three story manor house behind them. While I pondered this, my father took me by the elbow and led me away from this place.

Instantly, I was at the side of another building. It was now night. I noted that I did not recognize this place either as my father walked me around to the front of the building. As we walked I could see through the windows into the brightly lit interior of the building. The windows were very tall and of the leaded glass types with many panes joined by the lead. At the intersection of the panes was a red colored diamond shaped piece of glass. As we turned the corner and approached an entry into the building I noticed a large foyer space with rooms on two sides. On my left was a large banquet type room that seemed to be adjoined to the room in front of me. The entrance to the front room was accented by a massive oak beam that provided the header above the oversized entrance door.

As I walked into the foyer I looked into the room on my left side and noticed a long banquet table ornately laid out with many people seated there. They were passing a cup that looked like a goblet or chalice and each was taking a drink from it and passing it to the next person. Each stood as they received it from the person that was standing while drinking from it. After drinking and passing the cup, they sat back down.

I continued to walk toward the room at the front of the foyer and stood at the entrance of the room under the oversized beam. In the room were more banquet tables that appeared to be connected to the tables from the room at the side. At the head table was a person standing with both arms outstretched. This person wore a robe that appeared to be made of silk and the robe had a hood attached which was pulled up on the head. The robe was a beautiful light blue in color and flowed loosely around the body.

The dress of the people in the rooms and the person at the head table gave me the impression that I was witnessing something that had occurred long ago, but I cannot place the era. I was curious as to where I was and why were the people dressed in what I took to be costumes so I asked my father what is this place and why are we here.

He said only two words to me, the only two words he said during this whole encounter, and they were Rossbury Manor.

Michael Duncan’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the voice. He had been dreaming and he didn’t want this dream to end. Michael had not heard ‘that’ voice since the gunfight in Tampa, Florida over five years ago.

As he lay contemplating the dream he recalled the still vivid images of a banquet being held in a room with a person in a blue hooded robe passing a golden chalice. The elaborate rooms were distinctive and Michael could recall every detail. He repeated the only two words spoken during the entire dream, Rossbury Manor? He began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The first thought that occurred to him was to go to the computer and search for the term while it was still fresh in his mind.

To his surprise the place from his dream was real! There was an estate on Long Island, New York called Rossbury Manor, and they had a website! Michael quickly scanned the page as he listened to the peculiar music on the site with the sound of rushing wind in the background. He selected the icon labeled, Tour.

Michael sat frozen in place, staring at the screen in awe. Here was the banquet room with the same leaded glass windows, right down to the red diamond in the center of each divided pane. There was no mistake about it this was the place from his dream. He had been there mere minutes ago. The notable difference was that the room was empty. There was no banquet and no one in a blue hooded robe passing a golden chalice.

Most dreams vanish in an instant. Not this one. He was at a total loss to explain how he could be looking at the very same rooms from his dream on the computer screen in front of him.

The strange background music on the site with the wind in the background was playing with his mind. It seemed the perfect backdrop for the surreal feelings he now experienced. There was something about this dream that touched him in a way that seemed familiar and reminded him of strange experiences that began shortly after the gunfight in Tampa so many years ago.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he stood up and began to pace. The thought of Tampa would not leave him. He was convinced that the same Spirit that spoke to him in Tampa many years ago had now whispered Rossbury Manor in his ears as he slept. The question that now troubled Michael was what to do about it.

He continued to research the sites related to Rossbury Manor. He learned that a man named William Balderstone owned Rossbury Manor and was one of the original settlers of Long Island granted land by the English King in 1640. On the same webpage was a depiction of the Balderstone Family Crest. Next, he used Google Maps to locate Rossbury Manor. He zoomed in as far as he could and noticed something that looked out of place. There in the back yard of Rossbury Manor was a large white stone patio in the shape of an octagon with a large Templar Cross detailed in black paver stones.

The Templar Cross is something Michael knew well from his investigations of Freemasonry and the New World Order with his research associate, Glenn Giordano. They came across the Knights Templar and their well-known insignia while studying secret societies.

What was a very large Templar Cross, in an octagon shaped patio, doing in the rear of Rossbury Manor? Why was he shown the scene of a banquet with what looked like a Druid passing a chalice? More importantly, why was God talking to him again?

The last time he had heard that voice he had been slammed to the floor, hand-cuffed and hauled off to jail.

***

At that time, Michael had a death wish. A death wish he couldn’t fulfill. He was too much of a coward to kill himself so he deluded himself into believing that if someone else killed him it would be ok. Not a suicide. He had carefully picked the place and set the stage, the time was right. After many hours drinking in a biker bar in Tampa, Florida, a prerequisite for any bar fight, he could sense the imminent explosion. He would at last, with the bikers help; put an end to the hell on earth he called his life.

Michael’s long black hair was tied in a ponytail that extended halfway down his back. In their eyes he could have been a hippie, he wasn’t. The wolf- bone choker around his neck shouted ‘Indian’ to any one wondering.

Sitting alone at the back of the bar, he chose the men to complete his plan as he pounded down one vodka on-the- rocks after another. The bikers were sitting along the length of the bar, their colors staring Michael in the face. In the middle of the group, one bar stool stood empty. One of the road warriors had gone to hit the head.

Scenes from Michael’s life flashed through his clouded mind as he staggered to his feet, headed for the bar. He failed in his marriage. He deserted his children. He lost his job. He would not fail at this. He noisily slid the empty stool out of his way and leaned on the bar.

The music blasted. His head pounded. The place smelled like a urinal. A cloud of thick smoke hung in the air of the dark room as he stood at the bar between two of the biggest bikers in the place. The biker next to Michael turned and said, What’s up Geronimo?

Perfect, Michael thought to himself. Showtime!

Michael sucked the last drops of vodka from the heavy leaded glass, dumped the ice on the floor behind the bar and without looking at either of the men said, You can kiss Geronimo’s ass.

Michael heard the sound of the long neck beer bottle break over his head but he didn’t feel a thing. A stream of blood quickly ran down his face and onto his chest from the gaping cut above his eyes nearly blinding him. He didn’t drop. He didn’t flinch. He stared straight ahead and with a smile on his face wiped the blood from his eyes.

As the biker laughed and leaned forward to fist- bump his buddy he was ripped off the bar stool by a ferocious right cross. With the glass still in his hand, Michael had smashed it across the bridge of his nose burying shards of glass in his face. Before he hit the ground Michael was on top of him pummeling his bloody face with a flurry of punches that splashed blood and flesh onto the barroom floor.

Heavy boots crashed into Michael’s rib cage and another bottle broke over his head before a large hand grabbed his ponytail and jerked him to his feet. Two men held him upright while another two men beat him mercilessly. Michael began to lose consciousness.

Gun! the biker on the floor yelled.

In one swift move the bartender reached under the bar and tossed a handgun to the bleeding biker. He struggled to his feet and pointed the gun at Michael’s head. Michael closed his eyes.

Almost done, just shoot me you son of a bitch.

The men holding Michael upright dropped his arms and jumped back as the biker staggered toward his target wiping blood from his eyes with his sleeve. He pulled the hammer of the pistol back and took aim between Michael’s eyes. As he began to squeeze the trigger, time stood still. In a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, Michael heard a voice in his mind that would change him forever.

It’s not your time Michael.

In an instant, and in a way Michael did not understand, he was aware that he had just heard the voice of God. In the next moment, his hand, seeming to have a mind of its own, swept up in blinding speed and grabbed the barrel of the gun pushing it up just as it discharged sending the bullet into the ceiling above with a dull thud. With a quick twist of the wrist Michael now had the gun in his hand.

The tables had turned. Nothing short of a miracle had just occurred. The bikers fell over themselves, knocking over chairs and scrambling to get out of the range of the crazed Indian that now had their own gun pointed back at them. In the distance sirens could be heard approaching the bar from many directions and the place quickly cleared out in front of a very disappointed Michael Duncan.

Not my time? Michael shouted over the din of the still blaring music. He steadied himself leaning on the nearest table. He felt like his knees would buckle. The room was spinning as he looked at the blood covered gun in his hand and the back sides of the bikers clearing the doorway. This is my time, Michael whispered as he closed his eyes and slowly raised the gun to his temple.

Drop the gun! Get down on your knees. White light poured into the room as the doors were jammed open and suddenly there were uniformed and plain clothes cops shouting at Michael. He opened his eyes to see a dozen guns pointing at him and the sound of hurried footsteps behind him. Before he could act, before he could squeeze off a round, the gun was jerked from his hand by one cop while another slammed his face to the floor.

4

Samael Saboda, ‘Sam’ for short, was a black haired, brown eyed, middle aged Latino woman, intelligent, sophisticated and beautiful. It was her interest in the practice of Santeria that first brought her into contact with the handsome young Jesuit priest she knew as Father Romano. They met many years ago when he was stationed in Nicaragua while bringing the Catholic religion to the native population far in the interior of the country.

Sam had been raised to become a Santero, a high priestess in the religion of Santeria, just as her mother and grandmother had before her. She had since taken up the practice of Palo Mayombe, the dark side of Santeria. Palo Mayombe is considered to be the world’s most powerful and most feared form of black magic.

She met Father Romano deep in the jungle one evening during the full moon while performing a cleansing ritual for a villager thought to be possessed by an evil spirit. Father Romano was entranced with her beauty and by the power she wielded as she danced around her Nganga, the cauldron filled with her power sticks, bones, and the human skull that seemed to stare blankly at the priest in the moonlight.

Palo Mayombe has a pantheon of gods with Catholic counterparts and Sam was as enthralled by the unknown power wielded by the Catholic priest as he was by hers. It wasn’t long before Sam captivated the priest and ultimately initiated him into contact with her spirit guides. Father Romano immediately embraced this separate reality and his religious practices were changed forever. This change was known only to him, and Sam.

When Father Romano was called to Rome for further studies, he arranged to have Samael move there as well so they could continue their shamanic practices together. Sam was one of very few women enrolled at the Pontifical Gregorian University, the Jesuit University in Rome, where she studied theology while secretly practicing Palo Mayombe with Father Romano.

Through the practice of witchcraft and manipulation of spirit, Sam aided Father Salvatore Romano in his meteoric rise within the administration at the Vatican. He was appointed to the position of Cardinal at just 40 years of age, the youngest cardinal in the modern age.

Cardinal Salvatore Romano and his Palero priestess shared a passion for what they considered the purest form of spiritual communication because, to the