NEVER FORGET THE GHOSTS OF HISTORY Peter McLoughlin PART ONE Never forget the Ghosts of History: That is the Message from what I have transcribed, and you are about to read, Apocalyptic Warnings, Visions that go far back to Ancient Times, and, although they do not sit so neatly with my boyhood Instruction in History, their Essence and Pattern seem undoubtedly Compelling and True. My Account starts with an Image that could be from The Deluge itself: Humble Savages seeking Sanctuary, in the earliest days of Erin, as long ago as the arrival of Cesair, even before the Descendents of Magog, who had travelled over Land and Sea from the Plains of Scythia, and made this Island their Home, one of many Tribes to Invade this Shore, in an Age before the Sons of Mil. The Tongue they spoke was unfamiliar to my ear; Nonetheless, I understood the Meaning, in the Language of my own Race, the Tongue of Gaedhael, from when Tribes were dispersed throughout the Continents, Punished for the Sin of Pride. Though this first wave of People were like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, before being tempted by the Serpent, they had a Purity of Soul, from whence we all begin, and must return, on humble acceptance that there is a greater Meaning to our Existence, just as those simple Savages saw the Presence of a Greater Being all about them: The Sky, Stars, Forests, Rivers and the Seas; The Being that Lives both inside and out, in the large arc of the Heavens and smallest Petal of a Flower. I have written down the Visions and Voices that fill my head, as a record of a Night spent upon the Summit, beneath the Standing Stone, no doubt Monolith of Antiquity, looking down on a serene Paradise, where Heremon and Heber divided Erin between them. On the evening before, on the Seventh Day of September, in the Year of Our Lord 1759, as a full Moon rose over the Island, I made my ascent through the wooded slopes and rested in the clearing at the Apex, there to write the Words, of so many Visions that have troubled me so much, and that place became my Hermitage, amidst Nature, and my Temple of Spiritual Contemplation. In the dawn light, now without the aid of a lamp, I read the Words of those Ancestral Ghosts, often faint and fragmented; As best I can, I give them to you, the Reader of this Parchment. In these ghostly Whisperings, a Collective Ancestral Memoir of generations of Dead Spirits, a Prophetic Pattern is clear for me, and indeed it should be to any Courageous and Honest Reader, that when we pursue Power we get War. From the very earliest stages in Man’s History, when Protagonists fought with the Stone they picked from the earth or the Stick from old trees, to the Modern Day when Musket and Cannon shatter Life and Limb with such abandon, the Race’s terrible Fate is clear, if we do not amend our ways by turning away from the Path that seeks Power. What is the Great Curse that betroths us so to the Mistress of Power? I venture that it is Primeval Fear that is at the very Core of our Human Imperfection, and we are not even bound by Blood: For Family Members turn upon one another; We raise the Sword to fellow Countrymen when Circumstance calls for it; Nothing, even as Holy as our Faith in the Saviour Jesus Christ, will make us all One, nor any other Creed shared by two people, or that which marks us as Whig or Tory. There is no doubt, from what the Dead have told me, that our Commonality only unites us if there is a Greater Enemy at hand to threaten us, other than ourselves. Power is the greatest Foe of all, but still we are Blind to this Truism, and continue to delude ourselves to our Real Motives: We want Territory, with all that brings, and will Fight to Extend or Defend it, against the Danger that that brings; We do not Countenance any Challenge to our Authority or Ideas, though can argue in the Sweetest of Words; And we Protest great Injustice if we think our Wealth or Position is threatened. Yet the need for Power is so great, driven at its Heart by that deepest Fear, no King wants to concede it: No Serf would forego the Hope of it; Anyone would choose to be the Enslaver, rather than the Enslaved. The Weak seek Power through the Strong, and when they see their Needs met, give Loyalty; Although it is a Covenant that lasts only so long, because Power has no Surety. And though a person who comes to Rule might Promise to be Just and Wise, the Fear of losing Dominance will curtail any Instinct of Compassion and Fairness, for Power robs us of our Heart; It is an Illusion, because it has to be Fought for again, and again. It brings Pride to the Victor, making him Vainglorious, and once grasped, Power must be Retained, because the Vanquished is always at the door, dreaming what was lost can be Regained. In this Time of Reason, we should Hope for some different Order that Rules us all, but alas no! It is evident that the Struggle for Power has its own callous Logic: Wars are seldom commanded by the Insane, but it is Madness all the same; And no matter how ardently we try to avoid Conflict, the Reason we are preening ourselves at all, is for Power. If we were to be Truthful, and we seldom are, that is the Prize we covet. As we will not give up the Lust for Power we eventually meet our Nemesis, sinking into a Conflagration that we genuinely have not sought, but we are Dishonest, in that we do Desire Power, whilst we Protest our Motives are Noble: our Opponents’ Ignoble. Fault does not Lie with the Foe, rather with us all, for Power is at the Centre of everything we all do, and as we proclaim our Love for Peace, we Lie, because it is Peace on our own Terms we want; And should we Compromise, it is of Necessity or Defeat, not Morality. Peace must be on our Terms, that is what we Deceitfully crave and at the very same time insist we are walking the Road to Peace, but it is the Road to War, albeit signposted as the Route to Peace. The Devil tricks us into thinking Power Guarantees us Life and Protection, Wealth and Status, Control and Freedom. It does Promise, and Delivers, all of these; Ultimately it takes it back, and replaces it with War and Death: For Power is not an impregnable Citadel to Protect one: Believing so will eventually lead Man into dark Times of Despair; But remember, Hope, that drives us all, is Born of Despair; And that can allow us choose the Alternative to Power, though that which is not Powerlessness. Here follows a Prophecy Foretelling the Times of Despair, please God someone will find the Manuscript and take Heed of its Message. The glow of the Sun is turning black: A Storm is coming, and as we cross the wet Sand, watching the Sky and the Sea, we make much Haste, as we do not want to be trapped by the rising Water, and anxiously keep an eye towards Home, a cluster of hide skin Tents on a stony Beach...We are huddling in the Tents as the Wind shrieks around us, and our Homes are torn open: Water and Screams fill the Darkness: We run, making for higher Ground, up the wooded Slope, branches slap our faces; Flashes of Lightning illuminate our Way; Then Darkness, and the deafening Thunder...we have reached the Summit, without stopping, where we will sit all Night...A grey Morning breaks as the Storm fades into the distance, and along the Coast I see the other Island, basking in a pool of Sunlight...It is not the Storm that leaves us so few in Numbers: it is the Rivalry, Recrimination and Fear; Survivors fight one another: A new leader steps forward: Strong and Sure, and those who follow feel Strength and Security... I am left to wander the Coast, where I Scavenge, eat Limpets I prise from the Rocks or Fish I spear from the Rivers that flow out of the Forest. I do not enter deep into that Place, for I am on my own; But I do venture in a little way, for to find fresh Water to Drink. I am standing on the Rock, and although it is a beautiful Day (birds sing, insects buzz, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves) I am Afraid, for the Forest behind me is Dark and Deep and full of Beasts and red-eyed Demons, Beings I have no Power against, while on the Island are distant members of my tribe: Women are gathered around the Fire cooking; Others are stretching out Animal skins to dry; Children are playing with a Dog; Men are standing on the Beach by the dugout Canoes; The smell of roasting Meat reaches me; I feel Hungry; I call, but my voice is lost; They do not hear. The tribe is on the hunt; We are crossing the Cliff on the Beach that leads into the next Bay, to make our way along the soft Sand that curves around to the Hill that falls sharply to the Sea, and I am feeling Excited: I am a Hunter, I am with my People; We are working together.