Keian's Prophecy

By David K. Bonin

Apocalyptic Biblical prophecy looms in conjunction with the projected end date of the Mayan Calendar. Some fear the end of the world is truly near. But what if its actually the beginning of the next world, as suggested by world-wide indigenous prognostication?
What if we found proof?
A major earthquake in Indonesia snuffs out the lives of a quarter million people and triggers a dream in a long slumbering entity half a world away. As it awakens from its extended hibernation, it resumes its long struggle for freedom.
Five years later, it finally succeeds.
As it rises to the surface, it unknowingly brings with it the dormant memories of a 13,000-year-old spirit. Locked within these memories, lay an ancient prophecy that would shed light on the coming age and bring hope to a crumbling world.
A storm begins to brew in the heavens above

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465347213

David K. Bonin

After living in Alberta, Canada his entire life and working in the oil patch for twenty-five years, the author took an extended hiatus from everyday life. He traveled to New Zealand, Thailand, Laos and Vietnam (which included a slow boat trip down the Mekong River), in the company of his adult children. When his kids moved to B.C., Dave soon followed suit and was able to hold his first grandchild in his arms when she was less than two hours old. Along with his ever-present canine companion Phoenix, Dave now lives in the beautiful Kootenays of British Columbia.

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Copyright © 2011 by David K. Bonin.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011915194

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-4720-6

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                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-4721-3

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I - Changes…

CHAPTER II - Day 1…

CHAPTER III - The Awakening…

CHAPTER IV - The Reaper…

CHAPTER V - Day 2…

CHAPTER VI - Day 3…

CHAPTER VII - Yaola Penga…

CHAPTER VIII - Day 4…

CHAPTER IX - Day 5…

CHAPTER X - The Coming Storm…

CHAPTER XI - The Crossroads…

CHAPTER XII - Day 6…

CHAPTER XIII - Junction Point…

EPILOGUE

This work is dedicated to those who have provided love and light and laughter to an otherwise darker world before they moved on. It is written in memory of all the friends, family members and soul mates such as our beloved Jill, and Max the family familiar, who were taken from this plane far too soon.

I would also like to dedicate this novel to my children whose unconditional love has kept me going all these years. Last but not least, this labor of body, mind and soul is for my granddaughter, the new lovely light in all our lives.

PROLOGUE

I dreamed I saw the end of the world… there were many of us there; perhaps a hundred around me as I gazed skyward. As we watched the blue, cloudless sky tear open in vulvaic fashion, there was no panic. An overwhelming sense of peace made me smile.

Daniel Lyons (circa 2004)

1

As the Lady Keian’s Silent Glider whispered across the polished stone floors of the Great Hall, she felt the collective warmth of the Order, the Elder Council of Intuits, begin to envelope her.

It grew stronger as she and her attendant and companion, a statuesque red-haired woman, moved toward the unassuming twin doors at the far end of the Hall. Keian put her right hand to her chest, sighed heavily and smiled as broadly as she could, despite her facial deformity (her ‘temporary condition’ as she preferred to call it).

A Woman of the Ages, her gaunt and sagging face, her graying skin taut over her high cheek bones, could not mask the physical beauty that was once hers. Her short grey hair, which she refused to color, was sculpted with love and care, giving accentuation to the positive. Makeup was unheard of in her presence. Her eyes changed shade to match the conservative elegance of the long blue-grey dress she wore. Zipped to the throat and partially hidden beneath it lay her second skin: the ‘Matrix of Restoration and Life Interface’. A thin layer of natural fiber interwoven with a mesh of magnetized wiring and the necessary plumbing, the one-piece ‘MaRLI’ suit, as some called it, covered every square centimeter of her body including her head and was the key to providing the necessities for rehabilitation and comfort. Everything from magnetic reverberance imaging to medicative delivery to musical harmonization of the chakras could be achieved through this interface.

Keian’s favorite function of the suit was the music.

Even with the hood retracted the harmonious rhythms reverberated through her body; the strongest felt directly through her shoulder blades and collar bones.

The companion, Tara, dressed to compliment in a pastel red jumpsuit, moved to wipe away some spittle that had formed at the corner of her mouth but was waved away. Keian dabbed at it with the sleeve of her tunic.

She gazed up into the high webbing of arches overhead.

After all these years she was still fascinated with the architecture of the Great Hall. Multitudes had passed through with nary a glance upward as they moved here to there, lives entranced and distracted by other pursuits and focal points, no doubt. The great arched domes that formed the ceiling were her favorite. To Keian they seemed to be arachnidic in construct; absurdly proportioned as if spun by a multitude of gigantic spyders each with something profound to say.

Ancient architecture had always been a fascination of Keian’s.

She had never known why, until very recently.

As the tall doors before them swung silently open on balanced hinges, a rogue tear slipped away from her blurry eye and trickled down her time-weathered cheek. Before her lay the inner sanctum she had passed into many, many times before.

As the doors swung closed behind them, Lady Keian did something uncharacteristic. For the first time in forty years, she stopped cold in the foyer.

Tara, who had been by her side for a large portion of that time and had become a good friend to Keian, was caught off-guard and ran full on into the rear of the Silent Glider, driving her left knee hard into the vehicle.

Tara cried out in pain and bent over, holding onto her injured knee. The impact was great enough to turn the Glider around nearly one hundred eighty degrees. She stifled a whimper and looked up at her charge. Past the deep concern in Keian’s eyes, Tara saw the track of the tear on her aged face.

My pardon, my Lady, she began to apologize, I should have been watching…

Keian held up her right hand and smiled, No need, my old friend, she began, This was my doing entirely. I… couldn’t help it. Please forgive me.

She reached down with her good hand and laid it over Tara’s own as it clutched her knee.

Before Tara could respond, she could feel the Warmth of the Healer on the back of her hand. It passed through, into the wounded tissue that had already begun to swell with fluid. She lay her free hand over Lady Keian’s in gratitude and love, and was quite surprised to feel not warmth, but the icy chill of one near death. Tara could not suppress a slight gasp.

Shhh… Keian whispered. I… think that may be normal. I’m…

Before she could finish her sentence, a familiar warmth crept up from the base of her spine; a deep tingling sensation that quickly rose up her spinal column, causing involuntary shivers and shudders throughout her body and down into her legs and arms. Her pores opened and she began to perspire. Keian’s right hand clutched and squeezed Tara’s as her nearly-useless left arm flexed outward, threatening to release the covered object Keian cradled.

As she watched in wonder, her claw-like hand unclenched, each finger and thumb stretching to capacity. She could hear… and feel each joint crackle as it did so.

Distracted by this unexpected, yet not entirely surprising, event, Keian let slip the item she held secret. She watched helplessly as the sealed quartz glass tumbled in slow motion toward the greenstone floor where it would surely be dashed to shards.

Suddenly Tara’s hand appeared beneath the fluid-filled orb, her long supple fingers closing upon the vessel mere centimeters from oblivion.

She stood.

My Lady, Tara smiled, brushing her auburn hair aside with one hand and handing the prize over with the other, It would do no good at all to lose track of this so close to your objective.

My Lady Keian? she repeated.

Keian opened her eyes, smiled and nodded her agreement. The tremors had stopped but her left hand had curled back up into the shadow of its former self. The warmth and tingling sensation remained where none had been before and that was… something.

‘Perhaps next time’ she thought resignedly.

Your… knee, Tara? she inquired breathlessly as she took the container, carefully re-wrapping it in its silken shroud.

Tara looked down and, seeing both feet set firmly and… painlessly upon the stone floor, cautiously pulled her injured knee up to her chest. There was no pain left; the swelling was gone. Tears welled in her eyes as she bowed deeply, bending at the waist and touching her forehead to the Lady Keian’s right hand in a universal gesture of gratitude and respect. No words were necessary.

Her breath regained, Keian explained her actions.

I paused in the foyer, causing you pain… she paused, taking a breath,  . . . because I just now awakened to the fact that this will be my last official duty within the Council and I’m feeling rather maudlin about it.

With that, a breeze of cool, but stale air blew across her face and a drop of sweat forming at the nape of her neck broke surface tension and ran down the center of Keian’s spine, sending a cooler aftershock through her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, savoring the sensation.

Keian ran her fingers through her short grey coiffeur, now gleaming with a silvery sheen.

Would you like me to lower the ambient temperature of your MaRLI suit, Mistress?

Keian blinked, shook her head ‘no’ and turned her Glider around.

She chuckled to herself.

Some held to the legend the suit was named after a prophet who believed the injection of music could displace and destroy the ills of the world; others say the MRLI is a technical ‘wonder drug’ and the ‘Believers of the Legend’ should smoke less ganja.

Keian knew the truth lay somewhere in between.

She was, after all, a living testimony of the One True Power.

The two women stood silent and gazed down the corridor before them.

On the right side were five doors set three meters apart.

At the far end of the corridor stood three more doors, spaced the same and facing the entrance.

Each bore a carved rune representing a number.

The first door to the right was numbered ‘eight’. Its neighbor was numbered ‘one’ and the others fell into line. Doors ‘two’ through ‘four’ announced themselves from the right side of the chamber while ‘five’, ‘six’ and ‘seven’ flowed right to left at the far end to complete the decor.

The left side had no doors at all.

Very few features highlighted the grey stone walls and flat ceiling of the chamber. As for the floor, the polished gemstones of the Great Hall gave way to sandstone. Alcoves high up on the walls near the ceiling provided a pulsing glow not unlike flickering fire, lighting the chamber at intervals. There was no similarity to the design of the creation outside.

The styles of architecture were… worlds apart.

Keian had kept her mind carefully closed since the return of the fifty-four. Now they lay no more than a doorway apart from her. Her pulse quickened as she moved toward the door numbered ‘eight’, the one she had always used. Again she felt a cold current of air breeze past her face. Again she felt her companion shiver against the cold chill of inter-dimensional perambulation… perhaps all for the last time.

She took a deep breath as they passed over the keystone that released the door outwards on silent pivots. As they stepped into the five-walled grotto, the door swung shut and the floor began to rise.

Above them the ceiling parted, bathing them in a reddish glow.

One last time…, the Lady Keian said softly, her tone bitter-sweet, voice breaking ever so slightly,  . . . we enter ‘The Rose’.

CHAPTER I

Fig.02.jpg

Changes…

1

Francis Allen Kittrick had come out west looking for work when he was only seventeen.

When he started school, he learned about the natural cruelty of children. At the end of the first day, he came home in tears, wailing, Why did you name me ‘Francis’?

Before his mother could explain he was named after Francis Sinatra, a famous singer and actor, his father simply chuckled and lied, You were named after Francis, the Talking Mule, of course! Didn’t you know that?

Not until today! the wailing continued as he bolted upstairs to his room.

Over the ensuing years of school, Francis put up with every possible jab his name could cause to contrive, including the ‘Mule’ reference and ever-popular double lisp. This went on until; at the age of twelve he had a growth spurt and insisted he be called ‘Frank’. There was general compliance at school and in the neighborhood, but he was still ‘Francis’ at home. He didn’t mind it when his Ma called him by his baptized name, but it always sounded wrong when the Old Man spoke it.

Once the racial taunts and jokes began to reach his ears, the name thing meant squat.

He’d heard the stories, the legends rather, of the Great Alberta Oilfields when he had begun high school in his native Halifax. With his graduation only a couple of years away, local employment prospects really didn’t look that good to the kid. It didn’t help matters much that his father was no shining example in that field. He learned later in life that his dear old Dad was a really fine example of what ‘not’ to do.

Old Man Kittrick was a man who had apparently descended from slaves who were strong enough and fortunate enough to leave New York with the retreating British back in the 1780’s.

He was, for the most part of his life, a bitter, resentful man. It was always someone else’s fault when he failed to accomplish… or even start. Another man’s success should have been his, if only he’d had the support of a loving wife.

In his mind, it was often her fault. The alcohol he consumed regularly not only enhanced his frustration and childishness, it fueled his rage. When Frank’s mother finally had enough and left, his antagonist took on color. After all, she happened to be white.

For the next four years, Frank concentrated on his school; studying hard and sometimes staying at the library long into the night, coming home after his father had passed out. This not only made for good grades, but kept him out of earshot when his Dad started one of his tirades on how the white man was keeping him down.

He never heard from his mother. What does one say about that?

His father would remind him of his roots and how far the black man had come. He’d talk about Dr. Martin Luther King… and the Promised Land. But these were no father-son ‘climb up on my lap’ kind of talks. They would usually deteriorate into the ravings of a crying, slobbering drunk raging against the world and finishing in a puddle of his own leavings. It was increasingly difficult for Frank to find the pride his father sometimes spoke of.

It was an event such as this one that led to the ‘famous last words’ scenario.

A few months prior to graduation, Frank had shared his wish to go west with his Dad.

Big mistake.

He had hoped to catch the Old Man early; before the blood alcohol content got too high.

Unfortunately he missed the window. It turned into a row audible for several doors down as Frank learned of the perils a black kid would face in the ‘redneck’ west. He spewed on about cross burnings and neo-Nazis living in the wild Western Foothills; huge tracts of land where one could easily get lost… where one might never be found. Everything but the Bogey Man was brought out to play.

Then, as usual, it all shifted into the ‘proud to be a black man’ lecture. After hearing it over and over again, Frank couldn’t take it this one last time.

Pop, he said clearly, with conviction, I wasn’t raised to be proud.

Those were the last words spoken between father and son.

Frank’s father hadn’t raised a hand to his child in a decade. It all changed with the backhand blow that knocked Frank to the old linoleum floor.

The next morning, the youngest Kittrick was sitting on a bus, Alberta-bound.

Days later, he arrived in Calgary.

While leafing through the local paper looking for work, he happened to meet a drilling rig manager waiting on a parts shipment at the bus depot. As luck would have it, he also happened to be looking for a lease hand.

At nearly six feet, Frank filled the bill nicely.

After a week of working twelve-hour shifts packing drilling mud on a lease in the Foothills, Frank learned right away that there was some truth to the old man’s ravings. Whispered comments among the rig crew he could ignore; the inevitable ‘new-bee’ hazing rituals that got a little too carried away in his case… yeah, those, too.

However, when some cocky little bastard who had just transferred from another rig called him ‘nigger’ to his face… well, that was something else entirely.

Before he could utter another word, Frank dragged him through the snow behind the mud pile and slammed him full into a pallet of weight material; the same hundred-pound bags he’d been packing all week. The kid’s hardhat flew off and he bit his lip.

Inches from the scared punk’s face, Frank proceeded to fill him in on what surely would happen to him if he ‘fucked’ with this ‘nigger’ again. A trickle of blood ran down from his lip as he listened intently to Frank as he repeated an edited version of his father’s tale… lost in the wilderness where no one would ever find him.

A real shame, he said, shaking his head sadly in parody, He was such a likeable guy.

The next day before his tour started, the driller sent Frank over to the tool push’s shack.

‘The little weasel ratted me out,’ he thought as he trudged through the fresh snow that he likely wouldn’t be clearing today.

He banged on the door.

As he waited he glanced around and caught a glimpse of the kid’s smiling face peering out from the pump house. He sighed and banged on the door a second time, trying to mentally calculate if he’d made enough money to catch the bus home.

Come on in! the push’s voice sounded gruff.

Frank pulled at the handle and the heavy door swung open.

Leave your coveralls at the door and come on in, he ordered.

Frank complied and shuffled into the living area. The tool push was pouring two coffees.

Cream and sugar? he asked, motioning for Frank to sit down.

Y-yeah, he stuttered, surprised.

The old rig manager set the cups down at the table and sat opposite to Frank. He asked him questions about his home back east, how the fishing was there; asked of his family… shook his head sympathetically when Frank filled him in. He even apologized for not having a visit with him sooner. He listened as Frank talked about his dream to come out west and start a life for himself.

Once the coffee was gone, the push looked outside, smiled and commented on all the snow Frank would be shoveling today. Then he got up and showed Frank to the door.

By the way, he said, as Frank was zipping up his coveralls, I don’t think my nephew will give you any more trouble. In fact, I don’t think anybody will after today.

Frank was speechless.

The tool push laughed and closed the door between them.

He turned and muttered to himself as he crossed the lease, That’s right… he said, his stride lengthening, Nobody fucks with Frank.

He turned to see the push’s nephew peering out of the shadows. He was no longer smiling, but as he could clearly see, Frank was.

The next two months went by in a flash.

Frank enjoyed the hard work, the fresh forest air and that first big, fat paycheck. He had never seen that much money in his life.

On his first week off, he and two other guys from his crew found an old party house to rent in Calgary. They returned to the rig camp for their next tour of duty hung over and flat broke. The last twenty bucks they had between them went into the gas tank so they could get to the rig.

Frank had never pissed away that much money in his life.

The tool push just laughed.

It was a lesson well learned, for the most part.

Days off were still spent drinking a little too much, smoking a little too much (this was long before drug testing came into vogue), and chasing just a little too much tail, but Frank pushed himself a little harder and started putting money aside. He had heard rumblings of something called ‘spring breakup’. After learning it had nothing to do with ‘spring break’, he became concerned.

When the provincial government puts weight restriction road bans on the thawing highways, usually in early April, very few drilling rigs move. If nobody moves, nobody works, and nobody gets paid. The length of the ban was dependant on weather conditions and could drag out for a couple of months.

Frank didn’t really like the idea of competing for a job waiting tables or pumping gas with college students out for the summer. If he could make enough money (well, he knew he could do that) and control himself (a little unsure there), he could ride it out. His plan called for picking up extra shifts where he could; even fill in for the occasional roughneck with a court date. He was a quick study working on the drill floor where all the ‘action’ is. Frank loved slinging chain and tripping pipe; the required concentration coupled with the sheer physical effort was his ‘groove’.

By the time spring breakup rolled around, Frank had worked his way up to roughneck; big pay raise and all. He also had his driller’s handshake that he would be the first man called when the rig fired up again. He had also tried calling home… to let his Dad know he was alright. He left a message on the answering machine, but his call wasn’t returned.

Seven weeks later, Frank Kittrick got the call from his driller and he never looked back.

For the next two years he kept his nose clean and worked hard, keeping himself in excellent physical shape and putting his money to better use than he did back in the day. Frank bought himself a good, second-hand pickup truck to get to and from work. He also started throwing his money into a savings account, with the intention of buying his own house someday. When the motorman broke his leg in a skiing accident (so he says…), Frank got promoted again. He never had anymore problems with the ‘weasel’; went off to work for his daddy six months after their first meeting.

Frank had the feeling they’d meet again someday.

2

He continued to work for the same old tool push on the same old iron for several years until, one crisp winter morning right at crew change, the push called his last meeting.

Usually the meeting took place in the doghouse, but he requested the kelly be picked up and the well shut in and the meeting would take place with all hands present in his quarters. Whispers heard over the last few weeks indicated health was an issue.

They all knew his past days of debauchery were catching up with him. He huffed and puffed a little more often when climbing the stairs to the doghouse and he definitely was packing too much weight for his own good.

No one really knew the true extent of his illness.

Frank banged on the door as usual but was ushered in by his driller who had arrived earlier. The other rig hands arrived behind him and stepped into the shack as well.

Frank was shocked to see the old boy strapped in to an oxygen canister and semi-reclined on his couch rather than his chair at his desk where he almost always was.

The old push could be a man of few words when he wanted to be, but at this point in his life, he had no choice.

Boys, he said, matter of fact way, I have emphysema.

He took a breath, My smoking finally caught up to me and now I have to be on oxygen twenty-four / seven. What this means is: retirement. I’m getting the hell out and moving west to the Okanagan.

He gestured to the driller, Roy, here is stepping in for me. Who knows? He might like being a rig manager and give up the brake handle for good.

He laughed, coughing up something vile.

So wadda ya think, Sandy, ready to give up the glamorous lifestyle of the pump house and take the old girl for a whirl? he smiled at the derrick man.

Alexander, a twenty-eight year old blonde farm boy / football player from Saskatchewan grinned from ear to ear and replied, Ready all my life, Coach!

Frank knew what was coming next and was already grinning himself.

The old tool push pointed a chubby finger at Frank and then pointed it up, as in ‘up the stick’.

Yes… Frank celebrated his promotion softly.

Make me proud and don’t screw up, the push said to Frank, smiling, You’re kind of young to be slinging pipe at that altitude, but I think you’ll do alright.

He swept his hand across the cramped room,  . . . all of you will do alright.

3

A few years later, Frank Kittrick took a drilling position with a different company. It was an opportunity to advance himself and it didn’t hurt when he was given that coveted position on a brand new piece of iron. The new drilling rig was smaller, faster and could damn near drill to the same depth as the old dinosaur he started on.

In speaking of old dinosaurs with all due respect, his old tool push succumbed to his illness not long after Frank was set up to drill. Due to a demanding three-week tour in northern Alberta, Frank was regrettably unable to attend the memorial service.

Frank managed to put together a decent down payment so he bought a nice house in a small town outside of Calgary and worked where ever the rig took him. He dated a little, but found most of the women he met were just a little too into the ‘high lifestyle’ aspect of the rig worker.

One dark-haired beauty he’d been seeing for a few weeks even asked him if he would ‘build her a big house someday’. When he flatly replied in the negative, she seemed offended.

Things went down hill from there.

One bitterly cold winter day while working on a lease north of High Level, Alberta, Frank received word on his father. An old aunt he barely remembered sent a letter informing him his father had passed on. Apparently he was found unconscious in an alley behind some dive in downtown Halifax in the dead of winter. Two weeks later he, too succumbed to his ‘illness’ and died of pneumonia in hospital.

The sadness Frank Kittrick felt was not just due to the loss of his father per se; more so the belief his father never really learned anything of true importance in his life. He died as he lived. The legend of the death-bed conversion would not apply here.

4

For thirty-two years, Frank worked the oil patch of Western Canada.

Throughout that time he was mostly content with the driller’s chair, but he wanted his own rig someday. He had applied for the position on many occasions, but never made the cut. He had even worked several weeks as a relief push, proving his worth in many ways.

Some nights or in the early hours, his father’s voice would creep into his head telling him how black he was compared to all the others.

Another opportunity came when a new drilling rig was due to roll off the assembly line in the fall of 1998. Frank had made application to manage the new beast and