

# The Witch of Sulphur Mountain

———————————————

## The Supernatural Life of Agnes Baron,

## Meher Baba's Beloved Watchdog

### A Narrative Idyll

### David Madison

Agnes, aged 16 _, high school graduation photo, 1923._

Table of Contents

A Narrative Idyll

### I. My Friends Abroad

1. Saint Agnes

2. England: the Early Miracles

3. Saint-at-Large: Lisbon, the Balkans

4. The Holy Land

5. Shedding Gypsy Blood

6. Hitler, Reign of Terror

7. Spanish Civil War

8. Guernica

9. Sigmund Freud

10. Night of Broken Glass

11. Prague

12. Barcelona

13. Voyage of the Damned

14. Poland, WWII

15. Operation Barbarossa

16. Gargzdai

17. Babi Yar

18. Pearl Harbor

19. Joan of Arc

20. Human Tide

21. Christopher Columbus

22. The Phoenix

23. Ghost Ship

24. Torpedoed

25. Land!

### II. The New World

26. Provincetown, Cape Cod

27. Plymouth Rock

28. Plymouth

29. John Dark

30. Train to Boston

31. Train to San Francisco

32. San Francisco

33. Homecoming: No One Ever Steps in the Same River Twice

34. Eleanor Roosevelt

35. Vedanta

36. Humanity Might Be Worthwhile After All

37. Hollywood Vedanta Temple

38. The Nun's Life

39. Hindu Faker

40. Ananda Ashrama

41. New Life Center

42. Hitler Dead; Germany Surrenders

43. Hiroshima

44. Nagasaki; Japan Surrenders

45. WWII Ends

46. Avatar

### III. A World Apart

47. Meher Mount

48. Jean Adriel Purchases Meher Mount

49. Bosford Purchases Meher Mount

50. John Cooke

51. John Cooke Goes to Africa

52. John Cooke Returns from Africa

53. John Cooke Purchases Meher Mount

54. John Cooke Returns to Africa

55. Agnes Meets Meher Baba in Myrtle Beach

56. Baba's Car Accident, Prague, Oklahoma

57. Trail of Tears

58. Legend of the Cherokee Rose

59. John Cooke Returns from Africa with Polio

60. Beth and Tom McNell Purchase Meher Mount

61. Child Harold Purchases Meher Mount

62. Agnes Purchases Meher Mount

63. We Shall Walk the Land Together

64. The Hands of God

65. Baba Walks on Water

66. Doghead Greeting Godhead

67. This Land Is Very Old; I Walked It Long Ago

68. Buddha Belly

69. Baba Speaks

70. No More Grapes on Earth

71. Baba's Limits

72. The Baba Tree

73. Baba's Moods

74. Baba Sets Conditions for Agnes's Drive to San Francisco

75. Waves of Joy and Sorrow

76. Sanskara Sparks

77. Put It in Agni's Name

78. One Almighty Perfect Wave

79. Agnes Drives to San Francisco

80. Agnes, It's the Cops

81. Baba Wards off a Catastrophe

82. Around San Francisco

83. Alcatraz

84. Lombard Street

85. Fisherman's Wharf

86. The Painted Ladies

87. Completely Mad with Love

88. Professor Chatterjee Receives a Shock

89. Don Stevens is Shocked Utterly

90. Baba Discusses the Trip to India

91. The Golden Gate

92. Muir Woods: Another Baba Tree

93. Flight of Tears: Baba Flies to Australia

94. Baba's Work

95. Indian Blood: Baba's Car Accident, Udtara, India

96. A Walk with God

97. Baba's Last Trip to the West

98. John Cooke: The Greater His Release

99. I Love Saints, But Sinners I Adore

100. The Trail That Leads to Reawakening

101. Pushing Me Along Upon His String: the '60s

102 A Drop to Fill an Ocean

103. I Am Being Crucified Each Moment

104. Beloved Watchdog

105. Man on the Moon

106. Baba's Best Shooter

107. The Me Decade

108. The '80s

109. Hellfire and Damnation: The New Life Fire

110. Will You Let Meher Baba Burn You Out?

111. Chimneys of Fire

112. Burned-out 1949 Ford Woody

113. Walking on a Cloud

114. Cherokee Rose (Rosa laevigata)

115. Deluge

116. Silver Lining

117. New Life

118. Super-Bloom

119. No Bed of Roses

120. No Super-Bloom

121. Saving Breath

122. Guardian Angels

123. Did He Send You?

124. There Will Be Another Fire

125. Trust

126. Welcome Center

127. A Third Guardian Angel

128. Devil's Island

129. Escape

130. Welcome Home

131. Candles in the Wind

132. A Witching Formula

133. Agnes, Rest

134. Silence

135. Breath Comes Hard

136. One Last Time

137. Emergency

138. A Vivid Dream

139. Independence Day

140. Funeral Pyre

141. Life Everlasting

### Photos

Agnes, aged 16

Agnes, aged 21

Meher Mount, circa 1956

Agnes with Meher Baba

Agnes with Kali

Agnes and Margaret Craske

The "Blue Marble"

Agnes talking in tongues

Chimneys of Fire

Burned-out Woody

Cherokee Rose

Ken, Len, Agnes, and Tom

Topa Topa Bluffs

External Photo Links:

 Agnes, Baba, Myrtle Beach, S. C., May, 1952 or July, 1956

 Agnes, Baba tour MM, August 2, 1956

Photos of Baba at MM, August 2, 1956

 Meher Baba's Life and Travels: Meher Mount, August 2, 1956

Agnes articles and photos

Meher Mount Website

Acknowledgments

Author

Copyright

A Narrative Idyll

What is a narrative idyll? It is redundant, a repetition of the same thing. An idyll is an epic or romantic narrative poem. Thus "a narrative idyll" is "a narrative narrative poem." So why have I chosen to redundantly classify this work a narrative idyll? Two reasons: first, few today know what an idyll is; by prefacing it with "narrative," it at least says that it is something that tells a story, which gets one closer to an understanding; second, it serves as an intensifier, such as the adverbs very and awfully in the sentences That is very good and That is awfully good. So why didn't I just call it a narrative poem, which most everyone understands, and avoid this awfully pedantic preamble? Well, because I think it is a very awfully beautiful and evocative word that has wonderfully romantic connotations, but has woefully fallen out of favor. Then, too, because it carries the alternate meaning of "an extremely happy, peaceful, or picturesque episode or scene," as exemplified by its adjective idyllic: "So, Evangeline, how was your romantic weekend getaway in the dreamy countryside?" "Oh, Samantha," Evangeline gushed with romantic intensity, "it was perfectly idyllic!" Victorian poet Alfred Lord Tennyson well understood the romantic connotations of idyll when he entitled his "cycle of twelve narrative poems retelling the legend of King Arthur, his knights, his love for Guinevere and her tragic betrayal of him" Idylls of the King. He knew that had he entitled it Poems of the King or, more catastrophic yet, King Arthur's Poems, tragically avoiding every connotation of romance, we would not be talking of him today. So why didn't Tennyson entitle it The Narrative Idylls of the King, and up the intensity? Because the Victorians well understood idyll, with all its romantic connotations, being common parlance, and Tennyson knew that to call them narrative idylls would be gilding the intensity lily. But we are not Victorians, and so must get our intensity and romance where and how we can. Note that I favor the British spelling idyll over the American spelling idyl. That second l is called a tail-end intensifier, which intensifies the romance going every bit as well as narrative intensifies it coming, with the desired effect of intensifying the romance all around. You might call that second l a redundancy, but I call it an intensifying godsend. Without it narrative idyl appears shortchanged come to romance, whereas it has been shortchanged going. And here is where the romance gets in between the two:

Agnes Baron was very real, and the truth about her may be said to be stranger than fiction. Nonetheless, for romance, The Witch of Sulphur Mountain: The Supernatural Life of Agnes Baron, Meher Baba's Beloved Watchdog is a hybrid of fact and fiction, a "based on a true life" account. So remarkable are the facts of Agnes's life, that I thought it would be instructive to the reader if I were to list all the facts herein that the reader may understand what is factual and what is supernatural. And I set about that errand. But after a page, and I hadn't gotten beyond her birth in New Kensington, Pennsylvania on January 17, 1907, I realized that the sum of the facts was greater than the whole of the story; moreover, I would essentially, redundantly, be telling the story of her remarkable life before I ever got to telling the story of her life. Also, I saw that I would so have to pepper the text with Spoiler Alert! throughout that the whole would be four or five times the length of the supernatural story, and would run the risk of taxing the reader's patience. So I saw that I would have to give it up, and I did. I wouldn't be that redundant for anything.

Agnes, aged 21 _, Antioch College Yearbook photo, 1928, (by permission of Antiochiana, Antioch College)._

### The Witch of Sulphur Mountain

Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits

She could call up to pass a winter evening,

But won't, should be burned at the stake or something.

Summoning spirits isn't 'Button, button,

Who's got the button,' I would have them know.

—Robert Frost, The Witch of Coös

All is, if I'd a-known when I was young

And full of it, that this would be the end,

It doesn't seem as if I'd had the courage

To make so free and kick up in folks' faces.

I might have but it doesn't seem as if.

—Robert Frost, The Pauper Witch of Grafton

I. My Friends Abroad

1. Saint Agnes

No spells, no incantations. One sharp look

was all it took to turn that flaky

La-La Land know-nothing-about-love

lot into Baba-yahoos—just like that!

No wart of toad, no milk of hog-nosed bat.

But long before I ever was a witch

I was a saint. I wasn't named one though.

Plain Agnes Baron's what they christened me.

It wasn't till in 1923,

some 71 years ago, I saw

my first sure sign of budding sainthood,

turning chastely hallowed sweet 16.

And yet as roundly perfect and as purely

glowing as it was, my parents, though

I turned it every which way, couldn't see

just how divine, becoming was my halo.

So I left home, San Francisco, _free,_

to find myself in Yellow Springs, Ohio,

for God's sake, and enrolled in Antioch,

small Midwest boot-camp college better known

for revolutionaries than for saints,

on fire with sociology, and full of

young compassion for "My Friends Abroad."

Professor Chatterjee knew sweet 16

was just the right idealistic age

to inculcate Far East philosophy

so 5-years deep in me he'd turn me out

a saint, a great degree (compassion for

the poor) in hand, more burning in my mind.

(If I'd known there'd be millions of poor souls

throughout America inside a year,

could I have but foreseen, I might've stayed.

That's proof right there I wasn't then a witch,

or I'd have seen—as sure as I can see

through those who only talk of loving Him—

the Great Depression, Dust Bowl, Dirty Thirties,

breadlines of the dirt-poor coming on).

Idealism's fire so burned in me

to help the poor, downtrodden, and oppressed

that I'd have made a cauldron boil and bubble

(if I'd had one). There'd have been witch trouble.

But back in June of '28 Black Tuesday

was a year and four months off. Still, don't

you think, if I'd then been a witch, as some

suspect, that I'd have seen it coming on,

especially being black, and stuck around?

Instead, I found myself drawn to the _light_

of God, the which, as everybody knows,

is his especial way to draw a saint,

and gave myself to it without restraint.

2. England: the Early Miracles

So there I was, before the month was out,

on fire onboard the RMS _Olympic_ ,

sister ship to RMS _Titanic_ ,

bound for post–war-ravaged Europe via

Liverpool, and more devoutly bound

to be the patron saint to all the poor.

Yet all across I knew, though I was born

of Heaven, I was of this world enough

to know that even saints are not above

their crying need of earthly patron-love.

On English soil, by rail and prayer I made

my way to London where, by grace of God,

I soon worked up my debut miracle:

as easily as Moses the Red Sea,

I parted wide the London Times' great doors,

and held them back for all the time it took

to make them see I'd make a surefire foreign

correspondent. Done, I parted with

a burning zeal in me to be God's witness,

see their plight, and help the underdogs

in every land, so didn't waste a second

working up my second miracle:

as was the iron axe head made to swim

the River Jordan, so I made the iron

prow chop through the waves and swim me high

across the English Channel to Calais,

the hallowed land of young Saint Joan of Arc,

Blest light unto the medieval dark.

3. Saint-at-Large: Lisbon, the Balkans

If I'd not sensed her saintly spirit watching

over her beloved France's poor,

I'd there and then have taken up their cause;

but knowing they were in the saintliest

of hands, I looked afar to distant lands,

and shrank for fear: "You cannot go that far."

But my heart spoke out strong: "I'll go that far!

A journey of ten thousand ills begins

with the first step." So, starting with the right

of persecuted souls to some compassion,

I followed tears to Lisbon, Portugal

where Jews were fleeing to escape the growing

anti-Semitism, catch a ship

to somewhere, _any country_ with a heart,

with pity, that would take them; but few would,

as if their persecuted lot was _treyf_ ,

to use their own not-kosher "unclean" word

against them too. And I threw my whole heart,

its blood, against the heartless through my fingers

meant to wring the heart of those who claimed

to have one, to accept, to save these desperate

refugees. And I heard other cries

afar raised to indifferent, distant skies.

My heart's blood not yet dried upon my fingers

( _Christ!_ ), I bent my missionary zeal

toward the poorer war-torn Balkan states,

made abject all the more in being bounded

by the wealth of seven seas—all full,

from Black to bluest Mediterranean.

Still, even if I'd been a witch back then

I don't see how I could have seen a tenth

of all God had in store for me, although

I guess I'd have foreseen, as clear as day,

I'd have to work my every occult power

doing all I could to help poor Transylvanians,

pale as ghosts for Dracula's long having

sucked the Gypsy lifeblood out of them,

which even the most hard witch would condemn.

On foot more often than on some poor beast,

or cart drawn by it ( _ease its heavy load_ ),

I wandered from one abject Balkan state

to one as mountainously poor, bereft,

alone as much as not (except for God),

my passion always for the underdog:

the orphans, refugees, the handicapped,

the poor, the sick, and, most untouchables

of all, the lepers in their colonies

of rotting flesh ( _"Get thee apart from us!"_ ).

I did all in my power to not let

the rich world go on turning its blind eye,

the more its deaf ear to long suffering

Croatians, Slovenes, Serbs, Romanians,

Bulgarians, Albanians, and Greeks,

who, in despite the Treaty of Versailles,

were rich almost beyond imagination,

having a whole _country_ to their names,

while Montenegrans, Macedonians,

poor Bosnians and Herzegovinans

and Jews had no land they could call their own;

poor stateless underdogs without a bone.

Some say I never walked, but rode a broomstick.

What they saw was me _up in the air_ ,

astride my walking stick, and bristling more

and more each outraged bristle I stuck on

for all man _un_ kind's inhumanity

to man— _they couldn't help_ but see me

making angry arcs across the sky,

and riding all the rich for all their heartless

treatment of the poor, I holding on

for dear life: all the poor, downtrodden, banned,

oppressed, forsaken souls in every land;

they saw me flying off the handle, bristling,

flying madly at the dirty, mean,

uncaring world a _new broom_ _would sweep clean_.

I rode it all the more so travelling with

Albanian bandits, they on horseback, robbing

rich to feed the poor, I chronicling

their Robin Hooding exploits, moved by their

unwritten code of honor. High upon

a mountain we were faced, these men and I,

with spending all night in a one-room cabin.

God knows that, in chasteness, I could not.

"I'll fly back down the mountain on my broom,"

I didn't say, though that was understood.

"It isn't safe for you to go alone,"

they said, this, to a man, writ on each face,

insisting they must go back down with me.

In darkness, one of them, a happy youth,

_so full of life_ , was shot, and in my arms

he died unseen. I could not even look him

in the face, less for the darkness I felt

deep inside; nor could I bear the guilt,

the shame, nor face the grieving villagers,

so got up in the dark of night and fled,

a thing the meanest saint would not have done;

and in the act of fleeing in the pitch-

black night, I felt myself the darkest witch.

4. The Holy Land

I fled not knowing who or what I was,

or _where_ , in darkness, I was fleeing to;

I knew the less _whom_ I was fleeing from.

As if a dark cloud whim-blown by the wind,

I found myself in Macedonia,

distressed I hadn't found myself, so flew

the further eastward through Bulgaria,

then southward into Turkey, Syria,

through Lebanon, then into Israel,

where stood, atop a hill, the ruins of

the ancient city of Samaria,

and there I ceased my flight, I knew not why.

No longer did I wander as a cloud,

but as one wholly awed to walk upon

a holy site within the Holy Land.

Where feet had trod 3,000 years before,

I came upon (by chance? by _will_?) a man

stripped of his clothing, beaten bloody, robbed,

and left to die, for which the saint in me

leapt to the fore, and dressed his wounds, and gave

him water, made him comfortable, and flew

for help a long way, by which he was saved.

Then God made manifest and said, _You see,_

you aren't so bad a person to have run

away; you're only human, as I made you

in my threefold image, after all.

Sometimes the saint comes out in you, sometimes

the witch, sometimes the good Samaritan.

It was as if a dark cloud over me

had blown away. I saw— _Samaria_ :

blest birthplace of the Good Samaritan,

who helped a poor man even as I'd done.

And in that blessed parable I found

myself. Thence, I went forth all three, as planned,

by God's good grace, throughout the Holy Land.

Spake Christ, _The poor shall always be with us_.

And wheresoever I went: from the Dead Sea

to the Sea of Galilee; from Egypt

to Damascus; from the Jordan River

to the Mediterranean, the crying

need for me, all three of me, was there;

for everywhere were ruins: Babylon,

the Tower of Babel, Sodom and Gomorrah,

Via Dolorosa, Calvary,

the Holy Cross. And nowhere Jacob's Ladder

with its host of angels leading them,

the poor, to Heaven; only in a dream.

And in the heart of Baghdad where no heart

beat for the most untouchable of all,

the lepers in their living hell, their joints

decaying, dropping off, not even that;

such sleep as they could get could not redeem,

for they were those too poor to even dream.

It brought the Witch of Endor out in me

to see them cast off so without a hope;

so wrought the saint in me that I was moved

to see if I could work a miracle;

so touched the good Samaritan in me,

I ran to touch them who could not be touched.

I did all that I could with my six hands:

I sent out stark dispatches to the rags

about the rags of our humanity;

to charities, to _anyone_ who'd listen;

worked my fingers to the bone of my

contention for the apathy they met,

I heartsick for the little I had done,

to see that, in the end, I was but one.

I wandered as the Jew who'd heckled Christ,

condemned to wander till the Second Coming;

yet, in my long coming to the Balkans

for the second time, I wandered still,

until the village in Albania

I'd fled, in shame, those guilt-fraught months before,

and made apology where none was needed,

all insisted, welcoming me back.

And there, in grateful tears, with swelling heart

was theirs, I ceased to wander for a time,

that I might help them any way I could,

and, if it were God's will, by God I would.

5. Shedding Gypsy Blood

I poured my heart out into my dispatches,

hoping I might touch a few in whom

abided _faith, hope, charity, these three;_

but rarest of them all was charity.

For all the blood I poured out through my fingers,

whoso cared cared only for their own.

Yet I saw as I felt: _It's gypsy blood_ ,

and ran so strongly, warmly through me that,

despite my feelings for all those I'd come

to care for, then to love so deeply, I

was moved to check my quickened pulse; and, finding

it was healthy, made no weak attempt

to check my impulse; I _had_ to respond

to _such_ cries coming from the Gypsies—"O

you heartless heartland of Romania _,_ "

I cried out—"poorest Transylvanians!

Dracula has left you, bloodless, cold

—I'll drive a wood stake through his colder heart!"

My heart could not cry less, and still be true.

It had its own hot blood to answer to.

The Gypsies were the Jews before the Jews,

enslaved, forbidden marriage to their own;

denied the right of owning horse and wagon

(" _That_ will stop your cursed wanderings!");

their men, their women sent to separate work camps,

children put in orphanages (boys

put in the military); banned from speaking

Romani, from wearing Gypsy clothing;

charged with being loathsome lowdown gyps,

and swindlers, criminals, of bringing plagues on,

dirty deep down, therefore much in need of

ethnic cleansing, or, not coming clean,

despite the rubbing out, deported to

be persecuted everywhere on earth

they go—and all for nothing but their birth.

It made my gypsy blood boil so I felt

myself a witch's cauldron, so much stirred

by my own broom I bristled all the more;

so all up in the air I flew to them,

a burning one-witch comet trailing fire.

Feeling one with them, I lived and worked

among the Romani, and trying to

combat the world of prejudice against them

(I'd have used a _bat_ upon their heads,

but thought I'd catch more flies with saint than witch).

"Look! They're no different from you. Scratch a Gypsy,

and you'll find they _bleed_ like you and me."

But their hearts didn't bleed, and that was proof

to them that they were different from the Gypsies.

"Only look at them and see how lovely

they are deep down." They looked down upon them

just the same. Still, I kept sainting on,

and one by one, with time, I saw that I

was changing hearts and minds—oh, but the world

we knew was changing too! A broom flight north,

Berlin, within the German Chancellery,

in solemn ceremony, in an hour

of darkness Adolf Hitler came to power.

6. Hitler, Reign of Terror

I sickened, sorely wept to hear his name,

The same who vowed in 1922:

"Once I really am in power, my task

will be annihilation of the Jews."

I caught the first broom into Germany,

to see their Jewish terror, hear their cries,

to give them my whole broken heart, to be

the voice of conscience—and to hell with those

who couldn't handle the unvarnished truth.

I followed in his terror wake, accepting

the witness, crying out to anyone

who'd hear, as Jews heard their own crying when

the Nuremberg Laws codified their worth:

All Jews, all Gypsies, not of German blood,

are not Reich citizens, hence are forbidden

marriage, intercourse with Aryans,

their status, "enemies of Germany."

Hope died in them. And while it never ceased,

the violence against them both increased.

7. Spanish Civil War

I chased him down the heartaches and the tears,

I chased him down the Balkans, and in Greece

I stood with radicals defending it.

But Greek authorities ("You're communist!")

deported me. The Spanish Civil War

had only just begun to make a bloody

cruel name for itself. Affixing redeye

bristles to my broom, I flew to Spain

to help the Jews escape to Portugal,

and do my witching best to counteract

Francisco Franco, brutal fascist rebel.

Hitler, Mussolini made a pact

with him: they'd well supply him with their latest

weapons; he'd supply the flesh and blood,

the killing fields, the proving grounds. Had I

been less a saint back then, and more a witch,

I would have seen right through them, seen what they

were scheming for a darker coming day.

8. Guernica

Monday, market day. Most all the small

Basque town of Guernica were on the streets,

when German and Italian bombers, fighters,

swept in from the south and north in waves,

and rained incendiary hell on earth

on they so full of life. Then nothing more

fell from the sky but night as dark as hell,

the darker for the hellish fires that lit

the fourth of Guernica that yet remained.

300? 1600? None agree

how many died when it was full of life.

But all agree: Picasso's _Guernica_ ,

all 26 feet by 11 feet

of anguished human, horse, bull body parts,

he painted in a fit of outrage for

the 1937 World Unfair

is not so full of life, nor full of death;

not even close; not by a thirtieth.

Arose now the most piteous of cries

above the rest, which tore my ragged heart:

the children, many orphaned, innocent

of all. A cause began I made my own:

The children must be got out of harm's way.

A plea went out to all that had a heart,

the good who opened wide their arms in love

to take them from the other arms that kill.

I flew about in getting them on boats

and trains to Britain, Europe, Mexico,

all waving dear, small-hand goodbyes amidst

a rain of tears that I could barely see through,

hopeful for the kindness yet in man.

But hope was just a thing with feathers perching

on my soul. It wasn't meant to stay;

it _had_ to fly. Near Léon, Franco's forces

slaughtered more than 30,000. Bullets,

cannons, bombs all scorned to make distinctions.

Old or young or friend or foe alike

were met alike, and none refused the meeting.

How _could_ man be so inhumane to man?

What part of us did I not understand?

I might help, somehow, if I did, although

I couldn't see how. Still, I had to try,

and flew to one I thought might tell me why.

9. Sigmund Freud

Vienna. _Dr. Sigmund Freud_. Unsmiling,

he regarded me with piercing eyes,

gray. He was old. He probed my childhood, dreams.

I sensed with shame that he was peering through

the window of my psyche, Peeping Freud.

He then suggested hypnotizing me.

I feared he'd have me clucking like a chicken

trying to lay an egg. Instead, I asked him,

"Why is man so inhumane to man?"

He spoke some psychobabble words at me

I couldn't spell (I wasn't then a witch),

that sounded like a lot of who shot John.

His theory, when he got to putting it

in macho talk, was "sexual repression,"

then advanced that I should be his student.

" _No, I can't. I have to be what help_

_I can be to the poor."_ I hadn't more

than said goodbye, not knowing where in hell-

on-earth I'd go, when I thought I'd go mad

to have my ears repeat, repeat, repeat

the sound of Nazi jackboots in the street.

Next day his boots annexed all Austria.

Before long they were rounding up the Gypsies,

beating them and throwing them in prison.

At the same time, in the "heart" of France,

In Évian-les-Bains, a conference

convened to find locations for the Jews.

Of 32 participating nations,

31, including the U.S.,

would not commit to taking any. None.

The headline of one German paper gloated:

_Jews For Sale—Who Wants Them?—No One._ None.

I wanted to scream— _"I will take them all!"_

But witch nor saint in me could make that call.

10. Night of Broken Glass

A mad young Jew in Paris shot and killed

a German diplomat, Vom Rath, igniting

_Kristallnacht_ (the "night of broken glass")

by Nazis: 7,500 Jewish

shops destroyed; 267

synagogues burned; 91 Jews murdered.

This is the beginning of the end

That I could not begin to comprehend.

11. Prague

When German Panzer treads chewed up the streets

of Prague, and spit them out like they were Jews,

and swelled the desperate tide of refugees,

and Czechoslovakia ceased to exist,

once more I flew to Spain, I knew not where.

I had no flight plan; I was flying by

the seat of my pants (witch's intuition),

guiding me to something I must be

God's witness to in helping them to flee.

12. Barcelona

Barcelona, night. Italian bombers,

miles high, turned engines off and, hawk-like,

glided over life, unseen, unheard,

released their bombs, and waited . . . waited. . . .

When they saw explosions, knowing lives

were torn apart, their engines came to life.

Unsuspecting, none below were sheltered.

Even those snug under roofs weren't safe.

The fuses of the bombs were time-delayed,

designed to pass through roofs before exploding

laterally, powerfully, destroying

all things within inches of the ground.

The bombers came at varied intervals,

for two days, to exacerbate the terror.

How I anguished, grieved to calculate

the aftermath with stark hereafter math:

1300* dead, 2000** wounded,

*more and **less, for many more were soon dead.

Mussolini's hellish plan succeeded:

as the last straw broke the camel's back,

the last bomb broke the people's will to fight.

The Spanish Civ _Un_ civil War was over.

Franco'd won. The dying wasn't over.

In reprisals, tens of thousands died.

I wept. I didn't know what else to do.

A saint/witch/good Samaritan in one,

What _could_ I do? What had I ever done?

13. Voyage of the Damned

_No!_ God had faith in me—and I had faith

in God. He wouldn't not show me a way.

A flash of lightning, then a clap of thunder:

_Lisbon._ _There are refugees—and ships._

And in that miracle I was reborn.

By God, I'd get the Jews, the Gypsies berths!

Once on board, at sea, their persecution

would be over. They'd sail to a new world

altogether, _live_ as one, as Jews

who wandered in the desert forty years

were come at long last to the Promised Land.

I'd lend, through His, my little helping hand.

I pleaded, I beseeched; a witch, I bullied

embassy officials (gods) for visas.

Ships set sail with bright-eyed Jews on board.

Though further from them every wave, each moment,

I rejoiced, on board with them in spirit.

Word came then of the MS _St Louis_ ,

German, out of Hamburg, bound for Cuba,

900 mostly Jewish exiles that

(they didn't even rate the pronoun _whom_ ),

despite five days of Captain Schröder's pleadings,

_Cuba wouldn't take to save its soul_.

The ship should then have sunk straight to the bottom,

so fraught was it then with full 900

sinking spirits—blessed miracle!

In full faith it would hold, the captain turned

the ship's bow north for Florida. All prayed.

But though MS _St. Louis_ had been named

for the Missouri city, hearts were frozen.

All Jews were denied. Again he turned

the ship, now fraught with sinking hearts and spirits,

north for Nova Scotia, Canada.

Yes, _Nova_ (new). It surely promised them

a _new life_ ; but a Halifax official,

hostile to all Jewish immigration,

scuttled the last hope of their salvation.

How could my heart ever stand the pathos,

thinking they had so rejoiced escaping

persecution, leaving Germany,

but to be denied all sanctuary;

every heaven haven closed to them,

like shipwrecked sailors at the point of death,

come to an island sparkling in the sun,

devoutly ringed by cliffs, and nowhere could

they land for that the breakers' fearsome knocks,

relentless, cold would dash them on the rocks?

God, how could I imagine, much less bear,

what cold despair washed over them to feel,

to see, through bitter tears, MS _St. Louis_

turn its bow one last time to the east,

and feel the engine's rumbling bearing them,

their hearts and hopes and dreams and spirits sunken

deeper than the Mariana Trench,

_back_ to the persecution they'd escaped?

Dear God! would I had not then been all witch

with power of black art to so foresee:

of those 900 heartsick, wretched, hopeless

Jews onboard the "Voyage of the Damned,"

_254_ would soon be slaughtered

in the coming Holocaust—which sight

so wrung my heart, that had an endless flood,

I thought it could contain no drop of blood.

14. Poland, WWII

At least I _had_ a heart. In Austria,

the Nazis swept up 40,000 Jews.

("Protective custody _._ ") Emboldened, Hitler

crossed a Rubicon, invading Poland.

"Chelmno, Belzec, Sobibor, Treblinka.

All will make fine concentration camps."

Britain, France, New Zealand, India,

and all the witch in me, as one, declared

the Second World War "On Germany!"

Spat Himmler, "That old ground was broken once;

but by the Christ, I'll break that old ground new

at Krakow— _Auschwitz Concentration Camp_."

Soon Germany began transporting Gypsies.

Sterilized, starved, shaven, they were forced

to slave in Germany's arms industry.

Paris felt the tread of German jackboots,

nothing to the treading on my heart,

I felt that Hungary, Romania,

Bulgaria, and Yugoslavia

had joined with Germany and Italy,

as armed gangs hunted down Romanian Jews.

"Mere choirboys," scorned waiting killing crews.

15. Operation Barbarossa

16. Gargzdai

The wait was over. Further cloaked in darkness,

massive German forces all along

the border, from the less-cold Arctic Ocean

to the less-Black Sea, invaded Russia:

Operation Barbarossa. Object:

Final Solution to the Jewish Problem:

total annihilation of the Jews.

The _Einsatzgruppen_ , mobile killing squads,

cold-blooded, sick, inhuman, heartless monsters,

entered Gargzdai, Lithuania.

200 Jewish men were taken to

an open field and stood in groups of 10

before a long, deep trench, and shot, then buried.

300 women, children, piled in carts

like animals, were taken to a forest,

crying, screaming, knowing what was going

to happen. On the way, a priest caught up

to them. The women begged him, _"Please go with us!"_

There, the order came, _"Take all your clothes off!"_

At the priest's request they were allowed

to keep their underwear on. "Will you now

convert _,_ " the _Einsatzgruppe_ commander asked them,

"to Catholicism?" Sobbingly

one asked, "Would we be spared?" her eyes more pleading.

" _No,"_ he said. In desperation, some

were baptized. Then, without distinction, all

were stood in front of trenches, groups of 10,

one made-in-God's-own-image for each one

of His commandments, most, _Thou shalt not kill_ ,

and, by reverse almighty power, unmade

with a shot, and buried, some alive.

The _Einsatzgruppe_ took stock of what they'd done,

took bratwurst, Russian vodka, and a photo.

The first mass murders of the Holocaust,

No witch could see _how many_ would be lost.

17. Babi Yar

Kiev, the capital of the Ukraine.

In German, Russian, and Ukrainian,

the Nazi order went up everywhere:

_All Yids_ are _ordered to come to the corner,_

such and such streets, near the cemetery,

Monday, 8:00 a.m. Bring documents,

warm clothing, money, valuables, and food.

Any Yids not following this order,

and found elsewhere will be shot on site.

Bring all things needed for a _life_! Expecting

deportation, many got there early,

hoping for a seat upon the train.

Expecting 5–6,000, _Einsatzgruppe_

Commander Otto Rasch could not suppress

a twisted smile that more than 30,000

_Yids_ had fallen for his sick deceit.

Ukrainian collaborators ( _bastards!_ )

led them on in _trainload_ groups toward

the station, and when out of sight from all

the other hopefuls waiting for the train,

then turned and led them, puzzled, still believing,

on toward the Babi Yar Ravine,

Where no departing train was ever seen.

Arrived, the rotten bastards led them on,

in groups of 10, past station after station:

" _Valuables here, luggage here. Strip naked._

Put your clothes in separate piles—now. Hurry!"

Naked as the day that they were born,

now, in their shame, when they could not have been

more vulnerable, they were driven into

a long and narrow barbed-wire corridor

between a gauntlet of armed German soldiers,

angry, sneering, holding back large, frenzied

Dobermans and German shepherds, straining

at their leashes, barking viciously.

At intervals, above the frightful din,

the dreadful sound of gunfire; and they shivered

in their skins. No longer were they led on

to believe a train awaited them.

But it was too late; there was no escaping.

Those who halted out of crippling fear

were punched and kicked and bitten forward.

Frightened out of wits, on exiting

the corridor in shock, they then were led

down into the ravine, where they were seized

by _polizei_ who forced them to lie down

upon the corpses yet warm, some not dead,

still moaning, gasping out their last life breaths,

to wait their last few seconds till the gunman

walked across each freshly executed

body, giving woman, child, or man

their bullet in the neck to fit the plan.

Oh, God—oh, God! If they could but have known

their fate when they were many to their few,

they could have risen up, as one—yes, many

would have died—but many would have _lived_.

The Nazi bastards led them to believe

a train awaited them, a train with seats

for all—a train to take them otherwhere,

to _life_. Instead, no bundle strongly tied

with ethnic ties together into _one_ ,

the bastards took each stick in their strong hands,

one precious life to each one at a time,

and breaking each ( _snap_ ), cutting off all breath,

all life, the bastards led them on to death.

Oh, God, I do not hold them blamable,

the 33—God, damn it, _NO!_ I will not

make their coldly _murdered_ number small;

five tiny numerals for all their precious

lives. No, let me write it out in letters,

large, for all the careless world to see

for all those that they never got to write,

the thirty-three—God!— _thousand_ seven hundred

seventy-one Jews of Babi Yar,

all peace on their eternally sweet souls.

They were only human, after all.

They only saw what you gave them to see.

They only acted as you made them act.

You breathed a life so precious into them,

you made them fearful, each, of losing it.

Though they were being led on to their death,

they _yet_ had life, and where there's life there's hope;

one little miracle from you could save them.

Had they tried to rise up, tried to run,

they'd surely have been killed at once before

you saved them. Yet if by some miracle

one did escape, or more, in retribution,

" _fifty women, children for each one_

will suffer hell no Satan ever planned,

that, in effect, will be by your own hand."

_NO!_ I hold the rotten bastards, whom

_you wrought_ , so like a God, in your own image,

breathing into them a life so rotten,

giving them almighty power to take

_so many_ precious lives—instead of _smiting_

them as you so smote the Sodomites

—as you so smote my heart that I cannot

accept you are a just God, any more

than that you are a God of mercy, any

more than I can anymore accept

the witness of all you have wrought, for all

your wroughtenness, nor anymore accept

that I'm a God-blest miracle-ing saint.

I go forth now, all witch, without restraint.

18. Pearl Harbor

I drifted like a ghost ship, rudderless

upon an empty ocean, not a breath

to fill my sails, and breathe life into me,

lost, searching the horizon for an island,

safe and sheltered harbor, finding none.

I might have used my witching powers to look

beyond the dismal, featureless horizon.

But I was so dispirited I didn't

care to use them, caring less to see

just how unfathomably vast the ocean

is, and how immeasurably small

is one upon it, lost, especially

when half a world away. It's doubtful, then,

that even with my powers I'd have seen

Oahu, pearl of the Hawaiian Islands,

much less, some 600 miles northeast,

six floating islands, aircraft carriers,

all flying the same rising sun, a sun

that came up, as they, out of blackest night.

With all its powerful technology,

The U. S. radar hadn't seen them, so

it doesn't seem that I'd have seen them, or

the waves of Japanese planes bringing war

like swarms of hornets in a war-mad tiff.

I might have, but it doesn't seem as if.

December 7, 1941.

Sunday morning, 7:48.

353 planes armed with all

the bombs that each could carry, in two waves

descended on Pearl Harbor, Kaneohe.

Slow torpedo bombers led the way

with armor-piercing bombs. _"Strike highest-value_

aircraft carriers and battleships.

For Hirohito's glory, sink one in

the narrow channel trying to escape

to open sea, and block it to all ships.

Dive bombers, strike airbases, strafe, destroy

planes, any chance to mount an air defense."

The sailors onboard U. S. warships woke

to bombs exploding, aircraft, gunfire, shrill

alarms, above them all the frantic _"Air raid,_

_Pearl Harbor. This is not a drill_. _"_

Shocked, bleary-eyed, scared, dressing as they ran

to battle stations, they were unprepared:

ships bow to stern; locked ammunition lockers;

aircraft— _sitting ducks_ —parked wing to wing

out in the open; antiaircraft guns

unmanned as yet by as-yet-rising sons.

Ninety minutes after it began,

the treacherous surprise attack was over.

18 ships, 5 battleships, were sunk

or run aground; 347

aircraft totally destroyed or damaged;

2,403 Americans,

all _noncombatants_ (since Japan had not

declared itself at war with the U.S.),

were killed—1,177

alone on the USS _Arizona_ ,

shattered by 4 armor-piercing bombs,

its forward magazines exploding, sinking it,

and making Pearl Harbor their mass grave.

The officers all lived in houses, meaning

those onboard the ships, and "manning" them

—O heart! what little left the news destroys,

but leaves the heartache whole—were teenage _boys_.

19. Joan of Arc

When FDR addressed the grieving nation:

_. . ._ _a date which will live in infamy . . . ,_

all knew, in sitting hushed round radios,

his voice emoting what all felt inside,

they heard no warm and cozy fireside chat.

The facts of yesterday . . . speak for themselves. . . .

Hostilities. . . . no blinking at the fact. . . .

The unprovoked and dastardly attack. . . .

_a state of war. . . ._ Yet how all felt the heat

when Congress acted, felt the flames leap higher,

tossing fuel—the U.S.—in the fire!

No longer a disinterested witch,

a nonaligned observer, I was an

_American_ , in Nazi-occupied

France, hallowed land of saintly Joan of Arc,

the chaste, beloved "Maid of Orléans."

In 1431 cruel occupiers

tied her to a stake, and built a fire

beneath her bare white feet. For all the good

the crucifixes that, in strongest faith,

two priests held up before her, and the small one

she wore next her heart beneath her dress,

_they burned her_ , much as if she were a witch,

and tossed her teenage ashes in the Seine.

What grosser ending, then, could I expect,

no more a saint, too clearly now all witch?

All instinct screamed out, _Fly at once!_ but I

had not the spirit left to go by broom.

All prudence screamed, _Go back the way you came,_

across the English Channel, catch a ship

back to the old New World you left behind.

But all defiance in me screamed the louder,

NO! I'll join the fleeing human tide

of refugees, and be as one with them;

and if it be the will of something other,

help some in my abject godless way.

But where—the world on fire—could we flee

from all man _un_ kind's inhumanity?

20. Human Tide

Our human tide flowed south and west through France,

through Spain, through death, to Lisbon, Portugal,

where no full moon, but _full ships_ , lovelier

to see than any moon, their gravities

more beautiful, would pull it out to sea,

to flow across the world in highest hope,

and high up the most welcoming of shores.

But flowing through Spain, I had been pulled back

through time, through memory, through pain and heartache;

through the blasted shell of Guernica

so I might more accept the witness of

the bombs, the fires, the death, uncivil war.

I would have lingered weeping, grieving, cursing,

but the tide was strong and bore me on

to Lisbon where, as I had years before,

I pleaded, bribed, importuned, begged, and bullied

embassies and consulates for visas;

captains, shipping companies for passage,

Jews now many more, and few the ships.

Yet I was only one—sometimes a witch,

sometimes a good Samaritan. I tried

enlisting aid from those I'd gotten passage;

and it broke my heart beyond repair

when not a few refused, said in effect,

I've got mine; let them look out for themselves.

The human tide had borne me to the Old World

shore, and, rising, it would bear me onward

to the old-world shore I'd left behind.

I'd had enough of old worlds filled with heartaches,

suffering, pain, inhumanity.

I wanted to be borne so desperately,

as Christopher Columbus had been borne,

in high hopes, to a New World, that I wept.

But where, oh _where_ on earth across the sea

did such a new New World exist for me?

21. Christopher Columbus

In gazing out through waves of tears to sea,

as empty and as lonely, it was borne,

as on a high tide, deep within my mind—

_Palos de la Frontera_ , age-old port,

where Christopher Columbus had embarked,

in 1492, with his three little

wooden ships, the _Niña, Pinta, Santa_

_Maria_ for the New World, with all hope,

was but _a few miles_ down the coast in Spain.

Was I not too late? Could I possibly

find such a ship—and such a New World too?

Upon my broom, on new-found hope, I flew.

I found the _Niña, Pinta, Santa Maria_ ,

floating side by side at anchor, landlocked

in a small lagoon—but no Columbus.

What though they were full-sized replicas?

His ship, the _Santa Maria_ , was a carrack,

largest of the three; the _Niña_ , _Pinta_

smaller caravels, no less seaworthy.

The vexing trick was, how could I lift one

from out the small lagoon, across the land,

and set it floating in the open sea?

I'd have to use my every black-art power

just to pull it off, that's if I could,

and likely burn myself out so I couldn't

cast the simplest spell. Still, even so,

as heartsick as I was to find a New World,

I had to try. I closed my eyes and focused

my every power on the _Santa Maria_ ,

trying to envision it, first, trembling,

more and more, then slowly, oh so slowly

rising up out of the dark lagoon.

And yet, for all I tried and tried again,

I couldn't feel it trembling, moving me,

nor could I hear it dripping darkest water

from its blackened hull like midnight rain.

It should have been an easy thing to do,

mind over matter, simple; after all,

no sooner do I think to raise my arm

above my head, than— _Zapf!—_ without my lifting

so much as a finger—up it goes!

Your basic witchcraft. But for all I tried

and tried to raise his ship like Lazarus

up from the dead, dead in the water it

remained. In grief, I had to give it up,

conceding it was just beyond my power.

I tried to think of what else I could do;

but, overtaxed, my mind kept drifting off,

and carrying me back 500 years

to old Rouen, there to accept the witness

in a loop, like a recurring nightmare:

she tied to a stake, the fire beneath her

_burning_ Joan of Arc as if a witch;

and, weeping, witness time and time again

them toss her teenage ashes in the Seine.

22. The Phoenix

My mind stood watch as long as it could stand,

and then it just shut down, as all of me.

I slept the sleep of Lazarus; how long

I couldn't say. When I awoke upon

the high, broad poop deck right below the ship's wheel,

it was dark and cold. I gazed up at

the full moon high above me, and the stars.

I lay there till I started shivering,

then stiffly stood and took the massive ship's wheel

in my hands, imagining myself

Columbus looking out to sea—and froze,

not for the cold, but for the spectral beauty

of the _ghost ship_ bathed in silver moonlight,

come there in the night. I couldn't wait

for dawn. With racing pulse I made my way

toward the shore, arriving as the first

pink rays of dawn began to paint the sky

and ship more lovely each new brushstroke. Why?

As ships go, it was workmanlike, a freighter;

yet, to me, it was the stuff of dreams.

Don't ask me to explain. As I stood rapt,

in awe of it, I watched with quickened pulse

as some unseen hand lowered the ship's tender;

then my heart, as broken as it was,

began to race to see it straightway coming

_right for me_. I don't know how I kept

myself from plunging in and swimming out

toward it, that I might know all the sooner.

Long before it got to me I shouted,

" _What ship are you—and wherefore are you bound?"_

It seemed an age before the unseen pilot

cut the engine, glided up on shore.

A bearded face appeared above the high bow.

"If it please your ladyship, the _Phoenix_ ,

510 years out of old Rouen,

full laden with hopes for humanity,

and bound for the New World, as soon as she . . ."

The _Phoenix_! In a flash I saw it all!

I could have wept to know I wasn't such

a bad witch as I'd thought. I had no business

trying to raise the _Santa_ _Maria_ from

the dead like Lazarus. My mind knew that,

and wouldn't aid me in my foolish errand.

So it kept taking me back to Rouen,

and making me accept the witness of

her teenage ashes tossed into the Seine,

so often that I thought I'd lose my mind.

No, I was such a powerfully _good_ witch,

my mind saw fit to cast so much good will

upon her ashes, like a spell, it caused them

there and then to rise up from the mud,

as one, and flow on to the English Channel,

then along the northern coast of France,

then south on down the western coast, now flowing

through the Bay of Biscay, and along

the northern coast of Spain, then melding into

the Atlantic, down the western coasts

of Spain and Portugal, then Spain again

until the saintly ashes of the Maid

of Orléans reached Palos de la Frontera,

from which ashes then arose, so like

the splendor of the rising sun, the _Phoenix_.

Taking his arm, looking in his eyes

beseechingly, I blurted, all but sobbing,

" _You're the life ship I've been waiting for,_

I must go with you. You're my only hope.

I have to find a New World. I can't bear

to live in this one longer—can you take me?"

He looked in my eyes and said, "Milady

[I was so afraid I trembled, poised

for any look or word of hope to seize on],

I have stopped here for no other reason."

23. Ghost Ship

I must have swooned. Next thing I knew, I was

onboard the _Phoenix_ , just then weighing anchor.

Movement, mounting—we were underway!

I walked the length and breadth and depth of it,

and saw no other. Seeing it in moonlight,

feeling it a ghost ship, was as nothing

now to how I felt in feeling _nothing_

neath my feet: I felt I walked on air

upon a ghost ship, everywhere I walked;

and everywhere, I _felt_ , was emptiness.

And then I was ashamed. I had to find

the captain. Making my way to the bridge,

I found the pilot at the ship's wheel. _"Please, sir,_

I must see the captain—right away."

He looked at me a moment. "I'm the captain."

I was shocked. Were we the only two

aboard this ghostly shell? _"Oh, captain, please,_

_the ship is so,_ _so very large—and empty._

Lisbon is so close. Could we not stop

_and take some fleeing_ _refugees onboard?_

[I clasped his arm] _They've otherwise no hope."_

He kept his gaze upon the dark, cold sea.

"I'm sorry, that's not possible. I'm not

so authorized, to take more passengers.

Besides, as you can see, there is no space."

Was I upon a ship of fools? _"But, captain,"_

I objected. _"Sir, the ship's so empty_

_that the slightest whisper echoes."_ He said,

"That's just an acoustical illusion.

Hopes are like a giant, dry sponge: they

absorb whatever you put into them.

Then, call upon them, all you hear is silence.

You'll recall my saying on the shore,

as you so wished it in your mind, the ship's

_full_ laden with hopes for humanity,

and bound for the New World, as soon as she . . ."

I understood him then: "as soon as she

alone is on the _Phoenix_." That was surely

what he'd said, but which I didn't hear,

struck dumb to see it risen from _her_ ashes;

All that I could think of was that we

were every moment leaving waves on waves,

the human tide of desperate refugees,

the further in our wake—and from all hope

of being saved, of finding a New World,

each moment closer. How I wept that I

would be the only one to people it.

_It's not too late, it's not too late,_ I thought

with every passing moment. _I'm a good witch,_

after all. I surely needn't cast

a spell on him to make him see the ship

_can be both full of hopes_ _and_ _refugees;_

_be all the fuller yet of hopes and_ _dreams_

— _and we can turn around. It's not too late!_

And, full of both, I ran up to the bridge,

and put it to him just like that, convinced

that he could not but see the logic of it,

have a change of heart—and turn around.

But he was unmoved. "I'm not authorized

to take more passengers." He turned his face,

and looked me straight in mine. "There is no space."

I don't know how I bore it, not a saint.

The minutes, hours, a day went by; but I'd

not given up. I kept on going by

the bridge, and hoping I'd see someone else,

the ship's wheel in his hands, I could convince.

But always he was there. Did he not sleep?

I'll make him sleep the sleep of Lazarus

— _and turn the empty ship around myself_.

But then I thought, despondent, _No, I can't._

_I'd have to be a_ _bad_ _witch to do that._

I fumed. _It isn't right that he can go_

without sleep. He must be a witch himself.

And if I try to put a spell on him,

he'll only ward it off. And if the stronger

of us, he could put me off the ship.

Each moment I became more desperate

to think of something, anything to make him

turn the ship around. Another day

went by, and then another. I was almost

at my wit's end. Then, all of a sudden,

at my lowest, like a flash of lightning

out of darkest clouds, it came to me:

The captain, for all he may be a witch,

is all too human. Yes, of course he is.

I don't know why I didn't think of it

_right off the bat. No, I_ _do_ _know. I wasn't_

in my right mind. Now I am, thanks to

that bolt of lightning. It'll fetch him sure!

I ran up to the bridge and burst in, _"Captain,_

many of the refugees are not

without means. Desperate, in danger of

their lives, they'd pay you anything you ask.

Just name your price. You'd have it —and be rich.

_It's not too late!"_ I never thought that he

would strike a woman, but he struck me _hard_

with "I'm afraid it is. We've passed the halfway

point, the point of no return. There is

no going back. There is no shipping rule

as hard and fast: _There's not sufficient fuel_."

No poor soul lost deep in Siberia,

the Amazon, or the Sahara Desert,

could have ever felt as lost as I felt

on that emptiest, that ghostliest

of ships upon that emptiest of seas.

Columbus didn't set out all alone

to find a New World all those years ago.

And he knew how to sail, to navigate.

Yet there was I, no sailor and no saint,

but just a witch. So what New World could _I_

expect to find, should ever I reach to

the other side of that most tempest-tossed

of seas, when that same soul itself was lost?

24. Torpedoed

So sunk was I in spirit I no longer

feared our being sunk by German U-boat,

as the _Lusitania_ had been,

with one torpedo, sunk in 18 minutes,

deep as grief, 1,202 souls lost.

How all the more unsinkable I was

hit home some two hours later when the captain

said, "We've just been struck by a torpedo,

passing through the hull amidships just

as freely as a ghost does through a wall,"

with no more urgency than if he'd said,

"We've just been struck by a small drop of rain."

What struck me was I had no sinking fear.

As found the iceberg that sunk the _Titanic_ ,

and failed to drown the wealthy socialite,

so, too, the U-boat found me— _Failed to drown_

_her!_ —more unsinkable than Molly Brown.

25. Land!

Columbus said, "A lifetime pension to

the man who first sights land." And when a lookout

on the _Pinta_ shouted _"Land!"_ Columbus

claimed that he'd already seen a light

upon the land a few hours earlier,

and duly claimed the pension for himself.

I cared for no such pension lest it be

life in a New World free of manunkind,

so darker, colder than the late-December

night as I stood shivering upon

the bow, a lookout, then, to all the stars

I hadn't seen since Yellow Springs, Ohio,

13 years, unnumbered tears, before

(how long ago it seemed, and far away).

My awestruck gaze fixed on a shooting star,

and rode it down the coal-black starry sky

until it burned out in the atmosphere,

accepting of its going out in a blaze,

as had my inner gaze, in taking me

510 years back to old Rouen,

time and again, made me accept the witness

of that brightest star, on entering

that coldest, darkest of all atmospheres,

burn up—O heart!—with holiest of fires.

And then, as if that shooting star had been

a guiding star, it led my eye to fall

upon a small, bright, twinkling star so low down

in the sky it had to be but just

above the distant black, unseen horizon;

gazing on it fixed I couldn't think,

but that if it was borne upon a mind

uncomprehending that it would command

it to believe that star to be on _"Land!"_

II. The New World

26. Provincetown, Cape Cod

I rushed toward the bridge as fast as black ice

let me, but before I reached the stairs

I felt the _Phoenix_ slow as she'd not done

in six days, felt the more the lifetime pension

slipping from me faster than my feet

were slipping under me, the while that I

was trying to think what I should call the New World,

or if, then again, it wouldn't be

best just to let it be named after me.

I burst into the wheelhouse out of breath,

and, speechless, fixed my wild-eyed sight no less

than he upon the light, which wasn't twinkling,

starlike, as I'd first perceived, but flashing

regularly every 3–4 seconds.

It's an Indian! He's signaling

by holding up a blanket front a campfire,

taking it away at intervals;

his primitive attempt to make a lighthouse.

As we drew the closer, other campfires,

burning with a multitude of colors

( _what_ could they be burning!), more and more

appeared till they were countless as the stars.

Yet, somehow (strange), the closer that we got,

the less they seemed like campfires, burning ever

more with what seemed like _electric_ light.

It struck me dumb. I never would have thought

the New World Indians, with tongue-tie names like

Ousamequin, Mriksahput, Tashtassuck

would have had an Edison among them.

" _Where_ _in the world are we?"_ I burst out.

"We're just approaching Provincetown, Cape Cod."

" _Cape Cod!"_ I cried. _"But that's the_ _old_ _New World,_

the world Columbus found! I thought that you

_were taking me to find a_ _new_ _New World?"_

"Milady, I am sorry, but for many,

many years, a century or more,

there hasn't been a New World to discover

anywhere. The only ones you find,

if you look hard, and with an open heart,

are those you find within. I brought you here

to Provincetown where first the _Mayflower_ Pilgrims

set foot in the New World _,_ 1620;

it's the closest I can get you to it.

But, if you prefer, I'll take you straight

to Plymouth, where the Pilgrims next set foot

on Plymouth Rock, and settled, grew their corn,

and hunted, fished, then celebrated with

the Indians the New World's first thanksgiving,

thankful to be of the third still living."

27. Plymouth Rock

"Forgive me, Captain, I am thankful, too,

to you. You did your best to help me find

what cannot more be found. So let us go

to Plymouth, by your gracious leave, that I

alike may set my pilgrim foot upon

old Plymouth Rock, and make my settlement,"

I said, and hoped my glass-half-full expression

and my brave face hid my deep depression.

"Your choice is best, Milady. There you'll feel

the Pilgrim spirit one with yours; then you

can take the train to Boston, _wheresoever_

you've a mind, and more a heart, to go."

With that he bid the _Phoenix_ all good speed,

and, as he safely passed him, bid farewell to

the Indian at work upon his lighthouse,

who bid him Godspeed on Cape Cod Bay,

and did his native best to light our way.

Across the bay a softly rosy glow

bid more than fair to serve as guiding star.

I thought of that which guided the Three Wise Men,

through the desert sands to Bethlehem,

to praise a blessed child born in a manger,

bearing him gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

The glow, as we drew closer, was as if

the sky wore Joseph's coat of many colors,

coruscating like its brother stars.

The stars, though, unlike Joseph's human brothers,

envied not his coat of many colors

didn't throw him in a pit to die,

but, in their gladness for him, shone alike

with him in brotherhood, and _showed the way_.

I lost myself among them then in rapture,

where I would have stayed, but I was roused

out of my ecstasy to feel the _Phoenix_

slow, and cease its engines, then all motion.

The captain left the bridge, and presently,

I heard the anchor's heavy steel-link chain,

so linked in brotherhood, pay out, and cease;

and gently, silently, we rode at anchor.

I went out on deck that I might clearer

gaze upon the lights so many-colored,

but to find I couldn't pore upon them,

for a more compelling sight: the captain

lowering the tender, followed by

the stairway leading down to it. Then, smiling

up at me, he said, "Milady, if

you're ready, I will take you now to Plymouth,

one step from the New World, or so near it,

Plymouth Rock, you'll feel the Pilgrim spirit."

" _Now?"_ I blurted out. " _In dark of night?_

But wouldn't we best go when we can see

with morning light? We might run into someth—"

"Now is best, Milady, Christmas Eve,

as went three wise men in the darkness unto

newborn Jesus, born into a New World.

We are three, the tender, you, and I,

and it is wise for us to go in darkness,

now, upon this New World Christmas Eve,

when all are snugly in their homes with loved ones,

full of Christmas spirit, Christmas treats,

and few to naught the Pilgrims in the streets."

The bay much calmer than the open sea,

the tender swiftly bearing us toward

the unknown, such envisionings as I

had entertained upon the _Phoenix_ started

making sense: the many-colored lights,

which caused me in my wonder, then, to muse

on Joseph's envied many-colored coat,

were _Christmas_ lights; as one, the guiding star

that guided the Three Wise Men unto Jesus.

Looking in my own dark sky I saw

that I myself was being guided by

some mystic star, to what, or _where_ on earth,

I did not know. To my _new witch_ rebirth?

I might have yet been lost in reverie,

had not the tender's pitched, full-throttled engine

pitched down just as suddenly as _Rocks!_

leapt from the darkness like things from the deep,

then ceased of all sound, as if scared to death.

Not so the tender. And I _felt_ for it

to hear its tender bottom scrape the rocks,

its barnacles, with such a grating sound;

and wondered in my wincing what the Pilgrims,

gaunt, malnourished, scurvy, sick to death

of two cramped, wet, cold months on high seas, felt.

Were their so weak and wasted sea legs even

strong enough to stand on Plymouth Rock?

In empathy, I thought to stand upon it

for them, and I cast my eyes about me

in the darkness, but I couldn't see it.

"It's been moved," the captain said. "It's there,

within that portico." I looked in vain.

He set foot on some lesser Plymouth rocks,

and pulled the tender further up on shore.

I clambered out, and stepping carefully

from rock to rock, I got up on the beach

dry-shod, well pleased for all it was so cold.

The beach looked beautiful beneath a recent

fall of snow, and I was all for being

first to press our footprints in it; but

before the captain led us up the beach,

he set forth to impress on me some speech:

"Milady, I will see you to the station.

It's not far from here, and, Christmas Eve,

it's likely we'll see no one, but in case

we do, pretend that you're alone. Don't speak

as if to someone, less so to yourself.

You're in the Land of Pilgrims; Puritanic

Salem's not far north. They haven't had

a witch trial for 250 years,

or burned a witch, but you're a special case.

You mustn't give them cause to think you are.

You can't conceive how horrible is slowly

being burned alive; death by the lash is

faster, _kinder_ , not reduced to ashes."

His words went to the heart. "Perhaps," I said,

"my setting foot on Plymouth Rock would show them

I am one with them." "Then let us go,"

he said, and led me up the beach toward

the portico set high upon the seawall,

and in which was set an iron grate,

behind which was a kind of sunken pit.

The snow gave just enough reflected light

that I could just make out a large gray form

crouched in the gloom. My witch mind wasn't long

in giving rise to wild imaginings:

a hungry lion crouched within his den

— _and I a meaty Christian_. Even if

I could suppress that frightful apperception,

and convince myself, "It's Plymouth Rock,"

the only way that I could see to set

my foot on it would be to have the captain

toss me in the pit like Joseph's brothers

tossed poor Joseph. How would I get out?

I couldn't fly out on my broom in case

some Pilgrim should accept the witness, and

denounce me as a witch. Then, too, my mind

took flight again, and saw that "Plymouth" had

a _mouth_ —that I'd not be poor Joseph but

poor Daniel tossed deep in the lion's den;

worse, I'd not just be sticking my foot in

the lion's mouth, but my whole _head and all_ ,

so tossed, for my calamitous pit fall.

28. Plymouth

"On second thought," I said, "it's not important

I set foot on Plymouth Rock." That wasn't

true at all, for reason that I'd had

a lot more thoughts upon that rock than two.

"I think that you'll be safe," the captain said,

"as long as you feign being one alone."

Again it struck me, _What is there about him_

that would make them think that I'm a witch?

I burned to ask, but I'd have had to speak

to him, the thing I must not do. And so

he led me up and through the seafront park

in silence, and then into old-towne Plymouth,

seeing not a soul, nor so much as

a single footprint in the virgin snow.

It seemed to me a _ghost town_ , without ghosts.

Although he thought it best that we see no one,

I was dying to lay eyes upon

a Pilgrim. Did they dress as quaintly yet?

Did they still talk in 1620 tongues?

I talk in tongues myself, but not so many.

When we'd followed streets this way and that,

confounding me so much that I was lost,

and got the feeling my feet walked in tongues,

the station hove in sight with waiting train,

its antique locomotive huffing steam.

For whom? No one at all that I could see.

Still, furtively, the captain looked around,

then drew me into shadows darker yet.

"Milady, I will leave you here, and say

goodbye. The train will take you into Boston.

_Don't go north of there_ ; that's witch-trial country:

Salem, Ipswich, Andover. Catch any

westbound train. Keep your own company

until you've crossed the Massachusetts line.

Don't talk to anyone, and you'll be fine."

29. John Dark

Emotion overcame me. "Captain, I

owe you so much—my life. I don't know how

I'd otherwise have gotten to the New World.

I will be forever in your debt.

Please know that deep within my heart of hearts,

I evermore will burn a grateful flame

for you. And I don't even know your name."

He warmly took my hand in both of his.

"I'm sorry, yes, forgive me, I'm John Dark.

I've had the blest advantage all the while

in knowing yours. But now there is no time,

your train awaits. Goodbye, my dear Milady.

Don't give up on God, though your heart's sore.

I know you'll find the One you're looking for."

He let go of my hand, then turned and walked

away the way we came. " _Goodbye, dear Captain!"_

But I mustn't speak—and yet I must.

" _Goodbye, dear John Dark! I will not forget you._ "

Tears ran down my cheeks as he walked further

from me every heartless, stealing moment,

from my life, the cold night closing round him

more and more with every step, as though

upon my heart, until at last he melded

with the darkness like a ghost. I wanted

to run after him, not let him go.

I couldn't lose him for a moment— _no_ ,

of course I couldn't—I just had to run

in his own dearest footprints in the snow!

But something checked me. _What did I expect?_

I was a witch. Of course he had to leave me,

just as my heart had to sink yet faster,

deeper than the _Lusitania_ ,

as all my heart-warmed tears so had to fall

so deeply in his dearest of all footprints,

melting them—oh would they were _his heart_!

But my own tears defeated me; they so

diffused my sight, as looking through a glass

of water, that, for all I blinked and wiped

my eyes, all I could see, and I wept so,

was but my set of footprints in the snow.

I couldn't think for grief to know I'd lost

him evermore. _"O beautiful John Dark!"_

I kept repeating over as my tears

fell all the more, assuring I would never

see him more. In sympathy, my mind's eye,

which so often bade me to accept

the witness of the burning at the stake

of Joan of Arc, the gathering and tossing

of her teenage ashes in the Seine,

would have me see, once more, the saintly Maid

of Orléans— _O beautiful Jeanne D'Arc!_

And all at once, through all my tears, I _saw_ —

John Dark, _Jeanne D'Arc_ , the ashes, and the _Phoenix_ ,

captain, tender—all were Joan of Arc.

The whole thing was a miracle, a dream.

And that is why he couldn't take the Jews

and why we had to go in all the darkness,

lest somebody see me flying over

Cape Cod Bay, as on an unseen broom;

and why I couldn't speak to him, lest people

think that I was talking to myself,

and all of them denounce me as a witch.

Yet if it was a dream, how did I get there,

New World Plymouth, Christmas Eve, alone,

heartbroken, empty, grieving what I'd lost

that I had never had, a train awaiting

taking me alone, its engine steaming,

somewhere better? Or was I still dreaming?

30. Train to Boston

So desperately did I not want the dream

to end, I thought, _Could_ I be dreaming still?

Who said it had to end? She put me in

the dreaminess, and she could keep me in it

—and why wouldn't she? She was a saint,

and it was in her line of work to be

next but to God at working miracles.

The waiting train that stood there huffing steam

was only one, and in my heart I knew:

the engineer was _beautiful John Dark_ ;

and I as good as saw him when he blew

the engine's whistle in acknowledgment.

No, it was not as good as running to

the steaming engine, climbing up the ladder,

as I had so often done the bridge,

and seeing him again in full control;

but there was no time for the whistle's blowing

once more, and the cry of _"All aboard!"_

I couldn't wait, but yet I'd have to wait

to climb the ladder there, in Boston town,

where I would not be soon in coming down.

Aroused out of my dream within a dream,

I got a sudden start on seeing— _Pilgrims!_

dressed as anything but Pilgrims, bustling

round the train. So, hurrying, I suffered

getting jostled in the crush, but got

my ticket. And since he'd so caringly

suggested going west, I'd got it to

connect to San Francisco, my home city,

furthest west that I could go, unless

Hawaii; but I had no stomach for

revisiting that horrid infamy,

the sickening deaths of all those teenage boys.

I got onboard, kept my own company,

and spoke to no one. He was right to warn me.

Though as one they dressed like normal people,

and they paid me, seemingly, no mind,

I saw right through them: they were undercover

Pilgrims, smart ones, too; but I was not

deceived; their children, sweet, adorable,

all smiles and light, were just props. I was suspect

in their eyes, and they were laying for me.

Righteous for 250 years,

the lot were itching for a witch trial and

a good olde-fashioned Puritan witch-burning.

Well, too bad for them. I could have put

a spell upon them, but I thought I'd play them.

They took turns in strolling by me, stealing

glances, looking for some sign. Some even

tried to draw me into conversation,

but I put them off not looking at them,

giving them a chance to see an orphic

eye, pretending that I didn't hear them.

Well, you never saw a sorrier-faced

lot of Pilgrims, pulling into Boston.

Some were even crying, though it might

have been their being met by relatives

they didn't see all year on purpose, and

their forcing smiles on kin they couldn't stand.

As soon as I got off I ran as fast

as deep snow let my feet dash for the engine,

climbed the ladder, someone shouting at me.

Let him. What was that to seeing him,

my beautiful John Dark? _But he_ _was gone_.

It brought me down so hard the yelling stopped,

replaced by some gruff voice upbraiding me.

I would have sunk down deeper, to despair,

had reason not, so mercifully, have come

so quickly to my rescue: _Well, of course!_

He's on his way to my connecting train

to make sure everything's in order for

the long trip west. The days and nights will drag by

so heartbreakingly. But when at last,

in tearful ecstasy, I see him, and

he warmly takes my hand in both his hands,

and smiles, we'll be in my home town, romantic

San Francisco by the bay, the days

as warm as hearts, the nights as soft as cotton,

all the sorrow, heartaches past forgotten.

A whistle! then the plaintive _"All aboard!"_

together were a rude pin in the bubble

of my dream, exposing me to cold

reality: _I had a train to catch_

—and I might get there breathless, but to hear,

"I'm sorry, lady, that train's left the station."

Running for my _life_ , I sank on finding

what I had so frightfully envisioned

had, in part, come true: I got there breathless,

the conductor, picking up his step,

all set to climb aboard and close the door.

" _Wait!"_ I tried to yell so breathlessly

I had to run up to him holding up

my index finger telling him, _"one minute!"_

then, with one gasp, lit out for the engine.

When I was but three cars down the train,

and flagging, yet another flag was waved

before my eyes, a red one, spelling _Danger!_

half a dozen burly men around

the ladder, eyes locked on my apparition

closing. Tipped off, they were laying for me.

_I could put a spell on them,_ I thought,

_and make the lot as helpless as a baby_.

But I'd only give the other Pilgrims

eyeing me intently all the proof

they needed ( _"She's a witch!"_ ) to put me to

a show trial, and then burn me down to ashes,

river-tossed. That stopped me in my tracks.

I'd got away with climbing up the ladder

once, but I had doubts of doing it twice.

All is, if I'd have known how things would come out

in the end, it doesn't seem as though

a _hundred_ Pilgrims could have stopped me climbing

up that ladder to look in _his_ face,

my gallant and so beautifully young Captain

John Dark—oh, yes, there'd have been _some_ tiff.

They might have, but it doesn't seem as if.

31. Train to San Francisco

Defeated and depressed, I got onboard,

and, moving with the motion of the train,

I took a window seat off to myself,

and felt the overwhelming urge to lose

myself in sleep. But I would not be out of

Pilgrim danger, he had said, until

I'd crossed the Massachusetts/New York line.

And that was three hours with my drooping eyelids

held up by an incantation, and

by then it would be Christmas Day. I kept

myself from sleeping, eyes wide open, looking

at the many pretty Christmas lights,

which homes had the most ostentatious show

(all thanks to Edison the Indian),

and picturing the pretty price they paid.

_New York._ I let my unspelled eyelids fall,

and slept the sleep of one who'd hit the wall.

I woke to sunshine streaming in on me

in western Pennsylvania. I was all eyes,

looking with a keen intensity

to see what anyone at all who knew me

could not look upon but they would say,

"Of _course_ this is where she was born. She shows

New Kensington, the birthplace of a saint

in her each hallowed feature." But, for no more

reason than to cruelly deny me,

nightfall fell like no night ever fell,

so fast I never got to see myself

in everything. Then we were in Ohio.

I'd have wept, as much for cancelled evening

as for me; but such warm memories

of Yellow Springs, of Antioch, Professor

Chatterjee came flooding back that I

was torn. My young me wanted to get off

and ride my memories back _thirteen_ years.

But it was Christmas Day. The school was closed.

And those I knew, Professor Chatterjee

most dearly, would be with their families.

My old me was beseeching me to ride

my heart to San Francisco to be with

my gallant captain, beautiful John Dark.

My heart won out, yet graciously allowed

my memories to occupy a warm spot

in my heart of hearts, enjoy the ride,

as I to feel all snug and warm inside.

Come morning, Christmas, all its light, its spirit,

peace on earth, no more, I saw, as through

a dark, dark glass, _"Remember Pearl Harbor!"_

"Heed the Call of Duty"; "I Want YOU";

"Defend Your Country"; "It's _your_ War"; "Enlist Now";

"Bring Him Home the Sooner—Join the Waves";

"Women in the War: America

Can't Win Without them"; "Pass the Ammunition";

"Be a Marine: Free a Marine to Fight";

"Become a Nurse"; "Give Blood"; "Buy War Bonds";

"Victory Begins at Home. Grow Gardens";

"Food Is Ammunition. Do Not Waste It";

"Eat What You Can; Can What You Cannot";

"Produce More—More of Everything!"; "Save Waste Fats

for Explosives"; "Don't Talk!" "Loose Lips Sink Ships";

"Win the War by squeezing in one more";

"When You Ride Alone You Ride With Hitler."

"What are _you_ doing to help win the war?"

That last, directed right at me, well, how

could I _not_ answer it, for all I tried?

I couldn't, and the truth came out: I sat,

I darkest of all, never to atone

his riding right beside me, _me alone_.

I _couldn't_ ride warm memories to school days.

Soldier boys, and weapons made to see

they'd not be men, were everywhere upon

the move [slap in the face— _the world's at war_ ],

and dark and death-cold memories insisted

I be taken back, against my will,

with full recall, to all the horrors of

the wars I'd tried so hard to leave behind me:

Guernica; the Night of Broken Glass;

the Voyage of the Damned Jews; Barcelona,

Gargzdai, Babi Yar, the Holocaust.

These horrid memories and more were all

the memories that I was forced to ride back,

as if I were ridden on a rail

out of Ohio, Senecan "great river,"

home of buckeyes, into Indiana,

"Land of Indians," home of the Hoosiers,

Amish, buckle of the corn and grain belt,

into Illinois, the "Land of Lincoln,"

then across the mighty Mississippi

into Iowa, the Corn Belt, land of

covered wooden bridges, then across

the Big Sioux and Missouri Rivers,

then on through the Great Plains of Nebraska,

climbing Colorado's Rocky Mountains,

down to Utah, by its Great Salt Lake,

its Badlands, into "Silver State" Nevada,

deserts, high Sierras, emerald

Lake Tahoe, most of it in California,

fertile valleys, land of milk and honey,

huge Sequoias, movie stars, and money.

Looking back, I can't but think my eyes

fell desperately upon these scenic sights

and many more in passing, oh, if only

they might cast out all the horrid visions

that came flooding back in endless stream;

but so dark were my memories that nothing

light could penetrate. And so in darkness

through the Central Valley, Sacramento,

we rolled on, through Davis, and Martinez.

Oh, but when we came to Emeryville,

and I could smell the sea salt in the air,

my vision, as if by a miracle

most saintly, underwent a sudden sea change:

I could _see_ the train had reached line's end,

and we would have to get on buses that

would carry us across the San Francisco–

Oakland Bay Bridge into San Francisco.

In that instant all dark memories

flew back to where they so damned well belonged,

the sickening past—their place usurped by the

most gloriously dazzling memory

of _him_ , the captain/engineer of all

my heart and soul, my beautiful John Dark.

And, no witch-burning Pilgrim eye in sight,

we'd _both_ be seen in full romantic light.

No shrinking violet, I had my ways

of getting through a crowd, however thick,

without I had to use a sharpened elbow.

Fact is, I could well have given Moses

pointers come to parting the Red Sea.

In rushing off, ahead of all the crush,

how beautiful the sunshine—and the _warmth_ ,

the which would seem so gloomy and so cold,

_soon_ , when I would be bathed in all the brilliant

sunshine of his smile, and feel the all-

embracing warmth to feel him closely hold me

in his loving arms, and hear him say,

"Milady" _once_ again? No, many, many

times, and I would thrill from head to toe

the more with every one. And I set off

at once at all speed down the platform, past

the long, long railway cars that separated

him from me, and whose length, seemingly

so endless, nonetheless could never hope to

lengthen one iota all the longing

in my heart, as well as that in his,

and which had reached its utmost long ago.

Then, too, I had the strangest feeling, as if

in a dream: my feet, although no longer

having snow beneath them, felt no touch

of concrete, but it was as if they flew,

as flew the fleet winged feet of Mercury,

and I was moved to see if, in my ardor,

I was flying high upon my broomstick.

Looking up, I saw my loving captain

felt as I, and couldn't wait for me

to climb the ladder, _Jacob's Ladder_ up

to Heaven, but was climbing down it, feeling

his feet floating on the warm air, so

he might the sooner see and hold me close

and whisper soft, "Milady," and not once.

How gallant he looked in his engineer's

striped cap and uniform. He hadn't seen me

yet, save ever in his loving thoughts.

Alighting, he was just about to turn

and, in his longing, run in my direction,

even as I ran in his, when someone

to his right commanded his attention.

I'd have put a spell upon this meddler,

had he not then given me the perfect

opportunity I took: I ran up

to my loving captain from behind,

and warmly placed my hands across his eyes,

which mutely said so lovingly, _"Surprise!"_

My flushed, adoring face was set to meet

his own, my arms were poised to throw themselves

around him as he turned around with great

surprise. And when his eyes looked oh so deeply

into mine, I don't know, all emotion,

how I didn't fall down at his feet.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" said the strange face,

while I clutched at him to keep from falling

in my sorrow and embarrassment.

"I—I'm so sorry," somehow I composed

myself enough to stammer, blushing scarlet.

"I mistook you for the engineer."

"Miss took me rightly. I'm the engineer."

I must have seemed a ghost to feel the blood

drain from my face. Then, of a sudden, as if

by a miracle, the blood returned.

Like Lazarus, I was restored to life.

" _Oh!_ you're the engineer who will be taking

the train _back_ ," I said, restored to boundless joy.

"I'm looking for the gallant engineer

who brought it here—the whole long way from Boston."

He looked puzzled. "I'm that engineer."

"But you must mean the _second_ engineer,

who spelled him when he had to sleep, although

he doesn't sleep, so just to take a break."

"What is the engineer's name whom you seek?"

"Why, Sir, John Dark. You know him well, I'm sure.

I can't think but you're playing with my feelings."

"Madam," he said, when my beautiful

John Dark would have so gallantly, so warmly

whispered softly in my ear, "Milady,"

"I know every engineer," he went on,

"on this line, and none is named John Dark."

I couldn't comprehend, I couldn't speak;

I felt my throat constrict, I couldn't breathe;

the blood drained from my face, my knees went slack;

the world spun round, and everything went black.

32. San Francisco

O beautiful Jeanne D'Arc! You could have kept me

_in the dream,_ I cried so bitterly

in stumbling down a San Francisco street.

Oh such a little thing for you, a saint;

a miracle for me, a broken witch.

_O heart!_ If only I'd been walking in

my sleep, I would have still have been in the dream

most beautiful. But every stumbling step

the concrete met it, hard and unforgiving

like a vengeful God. The dream was gone.

O beautiful John Dark, you could have kept me

in the dream with but a tender smile,

with just one softly whispered, sweet "Milady,"

with your taking my hand in your hands

_so warmly, tenderly._ But no such sweet sound

touched my ear, no smile so brightly shone,

my hands cold, all alone. The dream was gone.

I walked the streets as in a nightmare, lost.

Though as a child I knew the streets so well,

they seemed so unreal, as did everything.

I didn't know which way to turn. And then

the truth struck, hard: _You can't go home again_.

And yet I needed desperately to go home,

get out of this rotten world of so much

suffering and inhumanity.

I hated manunkind, and I just wanted

everyone to die. Blow them to hell.

I hated everybody. And I wasn't

only sick at heart: for years I'd been

in such deeps of despair I gave myself

arthritis of the spine. _Witch, heal thyself!_

33. Homecoming: No One Ever Steps in the Same River Twice

What parents would I find? The same ones who

refused to fund me when I ran off to

"that school that turns out leftist radicals"

so far from home in Yellow Springs, Ohio?

Would they welcome home their war-torn daughter,

so wildly prodigal of all her heart,

her deep compassion for her friends abroad,

no longer purely haloed sweet sixteen?

And would they see that my life was a river

flowing on, and could they, seeing me

again, not as I was, accept that _No one_

_ever steps in the same river twice_.

And would I find their rivers flowed with ice?

34. Eleanor Roosevelt

They flowed with ice, because they had been frozen

over, and my river, coming home,

so warmed theirs they were quickly breaking up

as with a spring melt. In the weeks that followed,

I began to rally. Hearing that

First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt had made

the immigration of child refugees

of WWII her cause; more, had secured

acceptance of all Jewish refugees

aboard the SS _Quanza_ , mercifully

avoiding one more Voyage of the Damned,

I wrote to her, imploring her to use

her influence with FDR to take

more Jewish refugees. She wrote me, "Dearest

Agnes, I share your deep sympathy

for all the fleeing Jewish refugees.

But with our entry into this war, every

passenger ship has been requisitioned

by the navy for conversion to

troop transports. It is with the deepest of

regrets that I must tell you nothing can

be done until, with God's help, we shall win

this awful war. Yours most regretfully,

[signed] Eleanor Roosevelt." I wanted to

cry out that we would get _no_ help from God,

there'd be _no_ _Phoenixes_ with John Dark crews

arising from the ashes for the Jews.

35. Vedanta

I wrote Professor Chatterjee, and poured

my heart out. All compassion, he suggested

I should write of all the suffering,

the inhumanities, atrocities

of war that I experienced, that it

would be cathartic, purge the evil demons;

more, he recommended I look into

what Aldous Huxley, Christopher Isherwood,

and Gerald Heard were up to, in my neck of

the redwoods, as he put it, their researches

and experiments with "spiritual"

communities. I took his words to heart,

and gratefully. I read of them, their works,

attended meetings, meeting them, and learned

they'd each embraced Vedanta, one of the

most ancient spiritual philosophies,

based on the Vedas, sacred Indian scriptures,

philosophic base of Hinduism.

Gerald Heard, who saw that I was lost

and searching, introduced me to his guru

Swami Prabhavananda. He seemed wise

and good. I liked the universal oneness

of Vedanta: "all religions are

but different paths to the one goal in life:

to realize, and then to manifest

our own divinity, our real nature;

and to realize it is our birthright."

I read the Bhagavad-Gita and the books

of Swami Ramakrishna, founder of

Vedanta, and his close disciple Swami

Vivekananda who first introduced it

to the West. I liked it more and more

the more I read. But I'd been disillusioned

once before, and I was skeptical.

But then I met a lovely Quaker lady,

Josephine Duvinnick, who had taken

Vedanta to her bosom, and I went

to several of her meetings. She was just

so lovely in her heart, I felt there's something

to Vedanta. It must be for real.

In mine, I felt it had the power to heal.

36. Humanity Might Be Worthwhile After All

I panted up the hill in San Francisco,

paused until my breath returned in silence,

then walked into the Vedanta Temple,

order of revered Bengali saint

Sri Ramakrishna, who encouraged his

disciples to renounce the world and meekly

wear the ochre cloth, the color most

of Mother Earth. I stood in hushed and awful

reverence, and felt a sense of peace.

And for the first time in a long, long time

I had a ray of hope: _Humanity_

_might just be worthwhile after all._ I met

the Swami, and I asked if I could join

their order and be a Vedanta nun.

I'd looked at spiritual communities,

as dear Professor Chatterjee had urged,

but I was bitter still, and cynical;

I wasn't ready for community.

I wanted to withdraw and lead a cloistered

life of meditation, contemplation,

peace. The Swami didn't hesitate.

"We don't take women." That got my arthritic

back up, and it scared him good because

he quickly added, "but my brother Swami

at the Hollywood Vedanta Temple

does." So I resolved to go there, be

a nun. I didn't tell my parents that.

I knew they'd never understand; they'd think

that I was getting into some demonic

cult, and there would be no getting out.

And that would kill them. Telling them the truth,

that I was going there to pursue a "writing

opportunity" would hurt them, but

I knew deep down that they would understand:

my river had to flow on to the sea,

and I and they just had to let it be.

37. Hollywood Vedanta Temple

I told the brother Swami that his brother

recommended him. He looked me over,

longer and more searchingly than such

assessment called for, I thought. Mine was quicker:

I disliked him (witch's intuition).

Still, I thought, I didn't have to like him.

Cloistered in my cell, I'd hardly see him.

So I asked him, "Could I join your order?

I am finished with the world; I don't

need to renounce it; it has dropped from me.

I want to be a nun." I didn't tell him

that I was a witch. (He never asked.)

"Yes, I could take you. I'd be happy," he said,

moving closer, "to initiate you."

" _No,"_ I countered. "Ramakrishna says

one has to have a deep rapport with one's

spiritual teacher—and I don't

feel that with you." That knocked him on his heels,

most fittingly for one in his fresh shoes.

He said, "We've never once allowed a nun

novitiate to live the cloistered life

without initiation by a swami."

Yet he took me. Isn't that suspicious?

Yes, it's plain, a thing they don't permit,

that something or someone was back of it.

38. The Nun's Life

That day I entered on the cloistered life

with nothing but the clothes upon my back,

cast off for those of the novitiate,

amounting to a vow of poverty.

Yet I felt rich beyond all worldly measure,

having such abundant wealth of time

to meditate, to contemplate for hours,

read the Vedic scriptures and the swamis'

teachings, sink my hands deep in the rich earth

of the temple garden, knowing I was

richer far than Midas, howsoever

deeply he might plunge his hording hands

in treasured trove of coldly golden coins,

while I enjoyed the self-fulfilling riches

of my planting, reaping, tasting—wafting

fragrances more dear than the most costly

of perfumes, and treasuring the warmly

golden sunshine, full-to-bursting cloud banks,

showering me with such priceless rain,

the richest magnate in the world could not

afford one drop, nor yet a billionth part

of light so dear to darkly heavy heart.

The days went by like leaves blown by the wind,

amounting unto weeks, then months, then seasons,

piling up somewhere, as I imagined,

heaped against a fence or wall someplace

in time, to molder and decay and turn

to humus, and give rise to more new leaves.

Yes, _leaves_ ; so aptly had their lot been named,

they left me, as all leaves were made to do,

and more: for all I meditated and

I contemplated, read the Vedic scriptures

("Love God"), and the swamis' teachings over,

wrote of all I'd suffered ("purge the demons"),

to a leaf they left me with my darkest

memories, my disillusionments,

my heartaches, sorrows, enmities, and anger.

War without, the war within raged on;

nor could I see through bitter tears an end.

I longed, I ached for peace, so much I thought

my heart must cease its throbbing. Then, in one

unblinding flash, I _saw_ , through tears of joy:

I have to let God back into my heart.

I'd shut Him out in my apostasy

(how could He be the God of mercy and

not end so much ungodly suffering?).

I saw with swelling heart that He was moving

in His ways mysterious that we

don't understand; I saw that it was just

His way of testing me, my faith in Him.

And in that blessed seeing I was moved:

the tightly shut enclosing doors within

were opened wide, and with the passing days

and seasons, like so many dry, dead leaves,

the demons in my mind and body were

let go of, dropped, and even my arthritis

of the spine that made me so unbending,

fell from me, and, as if they were blown

by some new Wild West Wind, those old, dead leaves

were "driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red.

Pestilence-stricken multitudes." And in

my heart I loved God more, and I found peace.

But yet the Wild West Wind knew no surcease.

39. Hindu Faker

So stirred was I that I was driven from

my cell to God knows where, blown like a leaf

— _oh dear God, no!_ Abreast the swami's door,

the wind ceased to impel me on; instead,

it started in to swirl so forcefully

around the door it formed a passing strange

dust devil. What was strange was it did not

comport itself to swirling vertically,

as such dust devils do, but took to swirling

horizontally around the door knob,

twisting in an ever tighter vortex, as if

it were doing its level best to turn

the door knob—and then suddenly the door

was blown wide open—and there was the swami

loving— _God!_ The look of shame upon

his face showed he thought _I'd_ thrown wide the door,

exposing him. He wouldn't have believed

me if I'd told him, and I didn't try.

I left him only less red-faced than I

in fleeing him. My witch's intuition

hadn't erred. And I saw that the wind

was _God's own hand_ , that led my eyes to _see_ ,

in His strange way, what I'd intuited:

The swami was a Hindu faker, and

I had to leave him, led by God's own hand.

40. Ananda Ashrama

And come that other dawning we call morning,

nothing but my old clothes on my back,

my books, and little else, I took my leave,

and left the smarmy, "You're a fallen guru!"

He took ill at that, and he _was_ ill.

Once more I was adrift upon the world,

but with this difference: I was lost no more.

I had my bearings: east some eighteen miles

across low mountains, into La Crescenta,

to Ananda Ashrama, the Vedanta

Temple founded by Paramananda.

Now why did I leave one Vedanta temple,

disgusted, fed up with the spiritual path,

anew determined to be cynical,

and then go to the next Vedanta temple?

And the truth is, I was in God's hands;

and He was leading me as He saw best;

His way of putting my faith to the test.

I liked the temple; all the people there

were lovely, sympathetic when I said

I'd left the Hollywood Vedanta Temple,

as if they knew why. And I was straight

with them. "Look, I just want a quiet place

where I can write in peace." They took me in,

embraced me, and I felt a sense of peace.

But I had not been there a week when I

was told my typing late into the night

was keeping those in earshot mad, unsleeping;

so I'd have to cease my noisome clacking,

or else relocate. The swami told me,

"There's a new place two miles up the road.

The sign says, New Life Center. We don't know

too much about them, but we hear their names

are Jean and Alexander, that they're devotees

of some East Indian teacher. They've got cottages

to let, we're told. Perhaps they'll rent you one."

_Oh, God!_ I thought, _another_ _guru, faker._

No. I'd had it with enlightened ones,

messiahs, saviors, God incarnates, all

their only-through- _me_ ways of being saved

(read _disillusioned_ ). Sick of all of it,

I wasn't going to be tricked anymore.

Still, I was tired of searching, and they might

have some small cottage. They could keep their guru.

God had all my heart. And so I went,

and hoped it wasn't something I'd repent.

41. New Life Center

"I heard you have some cottages to rent,"

I told the cultish man who greeted me.

"I'm looking for a quiet place to write."

"Well we don't really rent them to outsiders."

"I just left Ananda Ashrama, after

two years at the La-La Land Vedanta."

"Well then let me talk with Jean," he said.

He wasn't gone but half a minute when

a bubbly woman came out, effervescing,

"Oh, my deah, we've got an Indian teacher,

too," she frothed, "His name is Meher Baba."

"Oh to hell with your damned Meher Baba,"

I said (to myself). "Look, I just want

a place to write in peace and quiet." "Oh,

my deah," she fizzed anew, a broken record.

"I'm a writer, too, you know. I'm writing

his life story, _Avatar_. I wish you'd

look at it, and tell me what you think."

_Oh, God,_ I thought, _another budding, boring_

_Shakespeare in the rough._ "I'll look at it,"

I said to put her off, "when you complete it,"

knowing pigs would fly before she would,

and I, not reading it, would say, _"That's good!"_

Well, just as you'd expect she liked me plenty

well enough to rent me, for a song,

this little cute old cottage on a hill,

"far from the madding crowd," a quiet place

where I could clack my heart out at all hours

of the night, and render it less quiet.

_Fine,_ I thought, _I'll let them take me in,_

and leave them and their precious one alone.

And everyone was fine with the arrangement.

They learned my name; I, in turn, learned theirs:

Jean Adriel and Alexander Markey.

Six more swelled out their religious cult,

all love-mad devotees of Meher Baba.

"Oh but, Agnes, deah," Jean gushed, "we never

say we're _devotees_ , do we? _"No, no,"_

as one they chorused. _"_ No, we like to call

ourselves," Jean gushed anew, "as one discovers,

scratching us, that we are 'Baba-lovers.' "

_Oh, brother!_ I thought, _they are really mad._

So I kept to myself up on my hill,

except to condescend to come down once

a day, my basket in my hand, to pick

such fruit as was in season from the trees,

though mostly I picked up the choicest windfalls,

riper, sweeter—goodness at its peak.

I never took part in their meetings, and

they never, thank God, took part in my own,

although I held them oftentimes each day,

my eyes and I so resolutely meeting

blank page after blank page. And things worked out

fine, except each time my path crossed Jean's,

she'd go on 'Baba this . . .' and 'Baba that . . .,'

to no good end, and I was getting more

and more annoyed, till one day I burst out with,

"Look, Jean, I'm not interested in

your precious Meher Baba." "Oh, my deah,"

she said, "just wait until you read his story.

You'll be interested in him then."

And then she smiled a knowing smile, and left me.

_Not a chance,_ I thought. _He's just a man_

who puts his robes on one leg at a time,

like every other common Hindu faker.

Just how interesting could he be?

Well, thank God, that's one story I won't see.

42. Hitler Dead; Germany Surrenders

The clement Southern California winter

segued into spring, as hope in me.

With every bright new day more dark, dead leaves

let go and fell from me, and blew away.

The war that for so long had raged within

had sued me, anguished body, mind, and soul,

for everything that I was worth— _and won_ ,

a largely blissful settlement: blest peace;

yet still the horrid bloody war without

raged on, with seemingly no end in sight;

in which each grievous gunshot that was heard

was not heard by the one it killed, its bullet,

having reached him long before its sound.

Then, on the 30th, last day of April,

the most _joyous_ gunshot of the war,

the celebrated shot heard round the world

was not heard by the one it killed, although

the barrel was pressed up against his head.

What he did not, the world heard: **HITLER DEAD**.

Germany surrendered one week later.

The world would come to know in time that he

had caused the deaths of some 6,000,000 Jews,

and 70–80,000,000 of

all races, faiths, and nationalities

worldwide, approximately 3%

of the world population. Still, that wasn't

deaths enough for Hitler, but he must

take yet more lives with him. He didn't trust

the cyanide that Himmler'd given him;

and though he'd planned to shoot his dearly loved

_pure_ German Shepherd Blondi he'd had since

a pup, he then had Dr. Werner Hasse

test one on her, which killed her promptly. So

he gave another to his wife of less than

one day, Eva Braun. Not satisfied yet,

he had one last word then with Fritz Tornow,

his dog handler: "After we're both dead,

take Blondi's five 4-week-old pups, and Eva's

two beloved Scottish Terriers,

upstairs to the bomb-devastated garden

thirty feet above the concrete bunker

—and then shoot them." These shots, too, were heard

around the world, all for a madman's word.

I was mad myself on learning this,

yet saved from utter madness by the thought:

At least the Jews who lived were free, at last,

of further fear of _Einsatzgruppen_ , death camps,

showers that were Zyklon B gas chambers;

guinea pigs of Dr. Mengele,

ovens fed around the clock, mass graves.

My writing was my way of purging all

these darkest thoughts of mind, restoring peace.

Soon spring gave way to summer's cloudless days.

June warmed up to July, which melted into

August. On the clear blue morning of

the 6th, as I sat lost in thought before

my empty vintage Crown, absorbed in rolling

in yet one more small white cloud of paper,

suddenly I had this overwhelming

impulse to look up and out my window

facing east, and I was dumbstruck. Though

I'd looked, on sitting, not a minute past,

upon a clear blue sky, my eyes were met now

with a massive multi-colored cloud

that totally obscured all trace of blue.

This wasn't natural. What could it be?

I jumped up and I dashed outside, and saw

a cloud shaped like an awesomely gigantic

mushroom miles high. This wasn't smoke,

the world soon learned, when President Truman spoke.

43. Hiroshima

At 8:15 a.m. on August 6

(Japan time) the _Enola Gay_ released,

from 30,000 feet, the first atomic

bomb dubbed "Little Boy" on Hiroshima.

44.4 taut seconds later,

at a height of 1,900 ft,

it detonated, mother of all flashbangs,

instantly releasing energy

equivalent to 16,000 tons

of TNT. _Enola Gay_ was 10 miles

from Ground Zero when all Hell broke loose,

11.5 when it felt the shock waves.

70–80,000 people

killed by blast and heat and radiation,

or burned to a crisp in the resultant

firestorm, a third of Hiroshima's

population, 4.7 square miles

of the city totally destroyed.

All who lived within a 1-mile radius

thought nothing else but that a bomb had made

direct hit on them. No one could believe

_one_ bomb had done so much destruction. Yet

their Emperor, a madman, too, exploded,

"with a force of millions—each defender

I will force to die—I won't surrender."

44. Nagasaki; Japan Surrenders

As one, with bated breath, the whole world waited,

like the maddened downstairs neighbor, for

the upstairs neighbor's other shoe to drop.

11:01 a.m., August 9.

The _Bockscar's_ bombardier released the other

yet more powerful shoe dubbed the "Fat Man."

Dropping at 600 ft per second,

47 seconds later by

atomic clock, at 1,600 ft,

with energy of 20,000 tons

of TNT, it struck the floor so hard

it blasted through the thin rice-paper ceiling

over Nagasaki's industry.

100 miles away the camera plane

_Big Stink_ saw the explosion. Everything

within a 2-mile circle was destroyed

completely. 70,000 people died.

At last Japan had got the message tendered

so untenderly, and it surrendered.

45. WWII Ends

As all its hearts had been, the whole world round,

the bells were rung in peals: _The war is over!_

People everywhere thronged in the streets,

the bars, the restaurants, the public squares

with laughing, drinking, dancing, singing, hugging,

kissing in mass jubilation; elsewhere

they conceived of making blest war babies,

which set off (apologies for their

crass metaphor, gross side effect of war)

the huge explosion of the baby boom,

an unimaginably powerful

device as old as man, a species of

reverse bomb, the ingenious brain child of

the most omniscient of scientists,

and which, instead of cruelly taking lives,

_creates_ —oh countless millions—of lives out of

holy cloth; more, and infuses hope

in untold billions of once hopeless breasts

—and out of which a new world shall be born!

Heart full of hope, I was _most_ jubilant,

as I set off, full sail, my own Columbus,

promising myself a lifetime penchant

for discovery—I'd be the first!—

my heart so full I thought that it would burst.

46. Avatar

I never took my wide eyes off the prize

as I sailed into autumn, and then winter,

and, with warmer days, on into spring.

Then one fine morning, what do you suppose?

A knock upon my door. Who could it be?

Since, as a rule, I and the Baba-lovers

kept our own lone companies, I couldn't

think who could be paying me this call.

I opened up the door—and there stood Jean

just beaming. "Oh, my deah," she effervesced.

"I but this morning finished Baba's book,

and knowing you've been waiting eagerly,

for oh so long, to read it through, I rushed

right up to tell you." And then, just as if

she'd conjured it out of thin air, she thrust

the manuscript into my hands, in trust.

You could have knocked me over with a feather

plucked out of a fledgling hummingbird.

Well, I was on the spot. I never in

my weirdest dreams thought she would finish it.

The last thing in the world I wanted was

to read it, yet I'd promised, and _I must_.

No out. _Oh, well,_ I thought, _I'll work late, then_

I'll dash it off in bed, be just the thing

to make me sleep, and take it down come morning.

So that night I got in bed resigned

to my big mouth, and opened _Avatar:_

The Life Story of the Perfect Master,

_Meher Baba_ by Jean Adriel.

The first dull part was all about Jean, how

the birds ate from her hand, and all that sort

of nonsense. God, and flowery! I almost

put it down a dozen times, but something

held me, kept me reading through the night,

kept pulling me along, as on a string.

And then she started talking of this weird

mute teacher, Meher Baba, of his life.

and all of the fantastic things he did.

I thought, _These things are unbelievable._

The more I read, in awe of his life story

(if I could believe), the more fantastic,

more incredible this Avatar,

this God incarnate, Meher Baba seemed.

And I got more and more excited, and

I read it through, and thought, _He sounds for real_.

All night I didn't have to try to keep

awake. For thought of him, I couldn't sleep.

Come morning, first thing, I dashed down the hill.

"Jean, is it true?" I blurted out on bursting

in like morning's light and waking her

from dreams of God knows what. "Is he for real,

this Meher Baba guy you talk about?

Has he done all those things you say he's done?"

"Yes, my deah," she said, as calm as if

she'd been anticipating me the while.

"Well what are you waiting for? Why don't you get it

published? What are you waiting for?" "Well will

you edit it?" "On one condition: you

give me a red pen so that I can cross out

all your sloppy terminology.

No publisher will buy it as it is."

Now why did I say that? I hadn't met

him yet. And I did not like her. So why

did I so talk in tongues, and almost cry?

Confused, I left her, shut myself away.

I tried to work, but all the day I couldn't

get him from my thoughts. It's only by

God's grace my mind, fooled by his like before,

dismissed him as yet one more false messiah,

or who knows how close I might have come,

then, to accepting him into my heart,

and all that lay false-prophetly in store

for me. With night I hardened it the more.

### III. A World Apart

47. Meher Mount

Meher Mount, circa 1956 _(photo by Lud Dimpfl)._

Some weeks went by, and then in mid-July,

one morning early, Jean was at my door.

"Oh, Agnes, deah, I've such good news. Word's just

now come to us from Baba, He Beloved.

He wants that we should find him a retreat,

a large one, two hours from the city, high

upon a mountain. _Do_ come help us look."

"But why do you want me to come along?

Your Meher Baba's not _my_ Avatar."

"Oh, come along! You know your mind's not on

your work. And mountain air's the thing to set it

right. Besides, it will be such great fun

to know, on sight, that we have found the one."

That shook me. _How_ could Jean have read my mind

so well to know that it was somewhere else?

And yet the weirdest thing was that, although

I had no dog in their hunt for a place,

I found myself the first one piling in

to grab a window seat. Don't ask me why.

Jean smiled to catch my brightly lighted eye.

Some two hours later we were driving through

the Upper Ojai Valley, heading west,

when high atop the ridge I saw a stand

of higher, lighter, gracefuller trees than

the denser oaks, conspicuously tall

against the heaven-blest blue southern sky.

" _There's Baba's place!"_ I sang out in a voice

I never knew I had, so charged was it

with pure emotion one could only think

was joy. The road I _knew_ would lead to it

lay just ahead. _"Slow down!"_ I cried, _"We need_

_to check it out!"_ Jean only smiled and slowed

and turned. The sign said Sulphur Mountain Road.

We slowly snaked uphill beneath a shading

canopy of old, majestic oaks

till, eyes, ears popping, we emerged to bright

blue sky. Ahead a driveway wound off to

the left and back uphill. "We're here!" I cried.

"But how do you know this is it?" one asked.

"Pull in!" I said. Jean pulled up to a gate.

Some hundred yards beyond, set back atop

a shaded rise a corner of a house

was visible. "It isn't big enough,"

Jean raised objection. "Baba needs more housing

for his mandali, his chief attendants,

and buffer land between the world—" "Don't worry,"

I said, "there'll be other buildings back

of that one, and still others back of that

—and scads of land." Now why did I say that?

I'm not a psychic. I hate psychics. Yet

before one more could raise objection I

was out the door and climbing up the gate.

I don't break rules like that. "You'll get us all

in trouble!" one cried. "We won't have a prayer.

"They'll—" "No I won't," I said, "there's no one there."

And no one was. So I looked in the window.

It was beautiful. The furniture

was gorgeous; everything immaculate.

So I went round behind, and found another

house, and it was just as beautiful.

Then I went back of it, and there was yet

another house, a little smaller, like

a guest house, and no less immaculate.

As well, there was a large barn, a garage,

a milking shed, a chicken coop, and other

smaller buildings too. I was astounded.

It was just as I saw it would be.

So I rushed back and called down to the others,

"No one's here. Come on up. There are lots

of houses, other buildings, scads of land

—a world apart." So they all climbed the gate,

and came on up. I thought the sky would heave

a jealous sigh to see how wide their eyes

grew seeing buildings after buildings; gorgeous

land that rolled across the mountaintop

and as jaw-droppingly down every side;

such manicured lawns I had never seen;

each blade of grass looked to be cut by hand;

well-tended gardens; fruitful orchards; vineyards;

hives; and high above all the most beauteous,

sun-burnished stand of graceful eucalyptus

gently swaying, whispering their welcome

in the balm-soft breeze then wafting us

their aromatic fragrance, so not one

but thought all "Meher Mount" smelled not of sulphur

that no earthly redolence could leaven,

but for all the blessed world like Heaven.

They sighed, for it was everything and more

they'd ever hoped to find for their Beloved

Meher Baba. _Oh!_ they sighed for its

high beauty, naturally; but most of all,

I soon learned, they were sighing over those

two little sigh-inducing words "and more."

"My deah," Jean sighed anew, "oh, I'm afraid

it's all so much more than we can afford,

we being only few _,_ " and right on cue

her backup sighers backed her up with theirs,

until I thought that they'd out-sigh the breeze,

which jealously picked up with every one,

to not be so air-stirringly outdone.

Well, what did they expect? Do we not learn,

and early on, we can't be always up

in life? that high is only high because

of lowest low we all compare it to?

Still, going back down the mountainside that day,

all couldn't help but see the coming down

was hard, and why it's called the mountainside.

The drive back to the city (seeming more

mean, crass, and lowdown) was a sigh-leant one;

I saw their coming down off "Meher Mount"

(they called it that right off) the way they did

was tantamount to coming down, and _hard,_

from highest of all heaven-dwelling highs.

Of course it hadn't brought me down so as

to leave me sighing. And why should it have?

Finding a high place for their Beloved

Meher Baba was their smitten lookout.

I was just along (why?) for the ride.

Yet, strangely, now, the sighing emanated

from but 4 of the devoted 5.

Jean, unbrought down (and seeming to me styled

as one who thought herself on top), just smiled.

48. Jean Adriel Purchases Meher Mount

Don't ask me to explain, then, why next morning

I was at Jean's door with "Have you called

the owner yet?" and, getting her demurral,

"Well, what are you waiting for? You never

know; it may not be more than you can

afford. You won't know till you ask. Besides,"

I said, to my surprise, "the Lord provides."

Jean asked. It fell out that the Bel Air swells

(he owned the huge _Ralph's_ supermarket chain)

who owned the place were parting ways; and though

the sadder parting would be with their hold

on Heaven, tearfully they'd part with all

172 blest acres for

so much down and so much for many years.

By selling off the choice 500-acre

New Life Center, Baba's first place in

the West, Jean swung the deal on August 16,

1946. But why she then

insisted I should live at Meher Mount

with them I'd no idea. "Why?" I said.

"I'm not committed to your Meher Baba.

I'm not going to live your life." "Oh come

along," Jean wheedled, "just the same." "I'll go,"

I said, "if I can have some little place

to write in peace and live the outdoor life

—and not commit myself." "Of course, my deah,"

Jean smiled. But what it meant, I'd no idea.

As much as all of them were so sky high

for having found and purchased "Baba's Place,"

you wouldn't think that I'd have been the first

to move, yet there I was, before the rest,

on Meher Mount. A New World _had_ been born

out of the war—a world apart—and I

could see God's hand in it. And I was high

atop that world, since _I'd_ discovered it;

and, as I'd promised, I proceeded to

award myself the promised lifetime penchant

to live out my life in this new world

( _so heavenly!_ ). When they came up I kept

apart as planned, not taking part in their

devotions or their meetings. One idyllic

year and more passed. Then, out of the blue,

well, what do you suppose? Jean up and said

that she was giving it all up and going

to _India_ to be with Meher Baba,

live devoted to him there, and die.

She laughed, and said she'd pulled a trick on Baba:

He had written that she mustn't come.

And she wrote back, "If you don't let me come,

I'm going to leave the body." Someone said,

"She's courting trouble; oh, she's courting _trouble_.

She's not fooling Baba." He consented.

Jubilant, she packed up all her things,

and then asked everyone to leave—but me.

"Why me?" I said astonished. "I'm not one

of you. Why don't you ask one of your own?"

"No, I want you to stay," she said, "until

I get to India and learn what Baba

wants to do with Meher Mount." "All right,

I'll stay," I said, not guessing one key thing:

that, even then, He had me on a string.

Well, some blest months go by, and I've no word.

Then one day, once again out of the blue,

Jean shows up on the Mount not saying much,

except she's going to sell the place and wants

that I should stay on till I hear from her,

then leaves. (I later found out Baba'd told her

[Tricking him had settled her account]

never to return to Meher Mount).

49. Bosford Purchases Meher Mount

Some two weeks later Jean was back again,

a city-slick Chicago businessman

named Bosford (I forget his first) in tow,

his fleshy, florid face all full of smiles.

I took him at face value, flush as it was,

at his blaze of words; he came across

as so on fire with burning Baba-love

I every moment feared he'd burst out into

flames and burn the ever loving mountain

down; somehow he kept the blaze in check.

Still, he was slick. He said he so loved Baba

he was burning to express his love

by buying Meher Mount in his sweet name,

in Baba's infinitely brighter flame.

He bought it (as we all did). Once again

Jean left and left me with that sphinxlike smile

of hers, like she knew something I was not

in on. Yet all the more mysterious

was, like the Cheshire Cat's, her smile, in parting,

lingered in the air long after she

was gone, or maybe it just lingered in

my mind. (If I had been a witch then I'd

have known; more, I'd have known the face that bore

that oddly cryptic smile I'd see no more).

Well, then what do you think? Jean wasn't more

than out the once-climbed gate when Bosford smiled

his own slick smile, then laughed his sicker laugh,

and said, "She's not the only one who's full

of tricks. Look, I've got no more interest in

her Meher Baba than I've got in praying.

I just played along to get the place.

And now I've got this height of beauty in

_my_ name, I'm going to build a grand hotel

—for psychics." _Psychics._ God, the blasphemy!

in _Baba's place._ Well, that's when I saw red.

I swear to God if I'd not been a saint

(I got my sainthood back almost at once

when, broken, I let God back in my heart),

I would have played a witching trick on Bosford's

black name, changed 3 of his middle letters

for him with a quick spell— _Shizzlbot!_

he B-s--rd's name and him _both_ ill begot.

That night I wrote to Baba for the first time,

babbled something formal and polite,

then told him about Bosford's black deception.

Then (I don't know what on earth possessed me.

I had not accepted him) I rashly

clacked out on my vintage Crown, "And, Baba,

if you still want Meher Mount I'll keep it

for you, yours, through hellfire and damnation,"

quickly signed and sent it off. Now why

did I do that when all my stubborn pride

had only gone along for _one day's_ ride?

Tense weeks passed. Then one gloriously bright

day Baba wrote me, postmarked "India,"

the sweetest letter: "Dearest Agni," he

began—you see how purely sweet he was,

to call me "Agni." Sanskrit word for "fire"?

"I love you very much, and by all means

you should keep Meher Mount for me." And then,

as through a veil, I read his scripture that

made, as no other had, my glad heart thrill:

"I know, Beloved Watchdog, that you will."

Now isn't that too weird? You wouldn't think

a woman, any woman, would have thrilled

at being called a dog, but it's a fact.

There's some would say that I was neath a spell,

and maybe it was so (I knew a few

that I considered witches; knowing them,

I wouldn't put it past them); all the same,

Through tears I saw that dog was close to God.

So close, in fact, that I was truly awed.

I said no word to Bosford, but I made

my mind up then and there that Meher Mount

was _Baba's_ place, not his; he might as well

slink back home—to Chicago? No, that was

too good a place, "hog butcher for the world."

I couldn't think but his home town was Hell.

A damned good thing, too, that I was a saint,

or that's just where I would have told the lot

to go, the godless psychics Bosford kept on

sending up at all ungodly hours

—for months. One day he wrote, "Look, I keep sending

all the top clairvoyants up there hoping

they'll foresee it as a good investment.

But each one gets back to me, 'No, thanks.'

All I foresee is trouble—mountains of it.

What are you and your Svengali doing

to them?" He ran on Meher Baba was

some black magician, I was in his power,

foolishness like that. I wrote him back:

"Look, stop this nonsense, and make up your mind:

This place is _Baba's_ place, it isn't yours.

For all the dark deeds you bring to account

_No one_ will ever call this Bosford Mount."

50. John Cooke

He didn't write me back. As winter turned

to spring, the all-foreseeing stream of psychics

slowly petered out (thank God!). Then one

especially fine spring day, as Providence

would have it, this young man, John Cooke, showed up.

His family, it turned out, were the Hawaiian

Islands Cookes who for a hundred years,

the joke ran, had their fingers in each poi.

No one was baked but wasn't with their dough,

and so were big kahunas. But poor John!

He only dipped his fingers in the arts,

his toes in dance. He had no head for business.

All he'd ever heaped upon the family

table was disgrace. Ashamed, they cast

his lines off ( _cast your bred upon the waters_ ),

set his craft adrift to wander lonely

as a cloud, poor black sheep. Next to bred

and water, all they gave poor John for his

survival was full freedom, time, and leisure,

and a fair chunk of the family treasure.

Not for John, of course, was it to tell

me this; it came (as did most tantalizing

bits then in my life) upon the breeze.

Yet what John told me then was all the more

auspicious: he said, by some fateful twist

(as if I'd not already come to see

God's hand in it), when he was in New York,

he chanced to hear of Meher Mount, but not

of where it was or aught about it save

it was a very spiritual place.

But just who'd told him he was at a loss

to say. He thought he may have heard it from

Norina Matchabelli, wealthy mystic

"Princess of Perfume," but, thinking back,

was not sure it was anyone at all.

All he remembered, clearly, was this voice,

the mounting sound of which was to rejoice.

Well that got my attention. John went on

that what then fell out was so passing strange

I'm moved to let him tell it in his words:

"From then on, though I'd never had the urge

to live the California dream, at odd times

through the day, and weirder times at night,

that voice kept breaking into conversations,

occupying thoughts, disturbing sleep,

as fitful as it was: 'John, California,

_California._ ' Yes, but where? North? South?

I'd no idea. So I turned my nose

toward the West, and let it lead me where

it would, and found myself, as if in some

forgotten time, within a greenly peaceful

upper valley, pretty as a postcard,

living on this cozy little farm

tucked snugly up against the base of oak-dense

Sulphur Mountain, thinking, _What could be_

_more beautiful?_ No fancy could account

for more—that it was topped by Meher Mount."

The air atop the Mount was slightly thin,

and rare, and it was sweet of John to mix

it with the thicker air of pure excitement

he so thoughtfully brought up with him

each day, thus making it that of see level.

What John came to see (and what he didn't

see before he came) was Meher Baba,

not in his pure flesh but in his loving

spirit. Each day early John raced up,

and with each he got more and more excited

over Baba, loving him the more,

not wanting all the more to leave; but by

day's end the air had got so thick I had

to chew each breath three times and swallow hard

to get it down. And harder yet was that

each sundown, with its last "pink moment" rays

I had to shove him and his atmospherics

out the gate and down the mountain so

the air could thin out overnight ("John, _go!_ ").

51. John Cooke Goes to Africa

Yet, truly, John was sweet, and I'd no doubt

of his sincerity in loving Baba.

Loving months passed; summer turned to fall.

One day, out of the clear blue autumn sky

(like Jean in going to India) John got

this distant look upon his face and told me

he was bound for darkest _Africa._

But why, he didn't say. (No need to ask.

I'd come to know John well enough to know

that voice of his was calling him to go.)

He only added that when he returned

_home,_ he was going to buy the place for Baba.

"Yes, John, thank you very much," I said

(I thought that he was joking). "No, I mean it!"

he said. "Oh, yes, John, I know you do,"

I said, dismissing him. Next day, before

he left, he said he'd seen to it I'd have

enough each month to keep the place up and

do Baba's work (that's just how sweet he was).

He knew (his parting joke) I couldn't count

on "Psychic" for this cyclical amount.

52. John Cooke Returns from Africa

Fall turned to winter, winter into spring,

spring into summer, and no word from John.

He might have fallen off the earth for all

I knew, much like I'd fallen into doing

Baba's work by trying to help the poor

to help themselves by giving them a place

to stay, sufficient food, compassion, love,

and just enough of Baba's work to feel

a sense of pride instead of just beholden.

Then one morning early—there was John,

a good bit travel-worn, but in no danger

of collapsing for the swarthy Arabs

(one at his each elbow) propping him up,

all while dancing their Algerian

attendance on him, sitting no dance out.

Even so, these matching Muslim bookends

had to give it up at last for sleep,

and John got me aside. He said he'd pledged

their swarthy kind a sum to help them fight

the French and gain their independence. They'd

come back with him to see that he made good.

"But _shhh!_ " John spoke in hushed tones, "I've enough

to make a gift of Meher Mount to Baba.

I'll bet if my offer came through you,

that Bosford, a voice tells me, will foresee

that he'd be wise to take it—and be free."

Elated, bright and early the next morning

I went down the hill and phoned Chicago:

"Bosford," I said, "I've someone who's going

to buy you out of Meher Mount—it's coming

back where it belongs. You're going to take

the offer—do you understand me?" "How much

are they offering?" he asked. I told him.

"Oh, God, I'd lose money on it at

that price," he griped. "Well, that's just too damned bad,

now isn't it? You greedy, selfish man.

You lied to get your sly hands on the place,

and now you're moaning you'll be losing on it

—when you're lucky to be getting that.

Now, look, I'm warning you, if you don't take it

you'll be sorry. Wire me your acceptance

in three days—or bear the consequence."

He sent it! but I swear I don't know what

possessed me to so talk in tongues like that.

I only knew I had to make him think

that I was something other than a saint,

the which would give him more cause for complaint.

53. John Cooke Purchases Meher Mount

John bought it! and I could have danced a jig

when he said it was to be Baba's place,

and I could work with all the poor, and helping

how I could—and not see _one_ more psychic.

So John's sister (she the only family

who had any love for him) insisted

that the property be in John's name.

"John, you love Baba just as much as I do

[even though I'd not accepted him.

Deep down I had, but still my stubborn mind

said 'Uh-uh.']; and you've written, in your own

sweet hand, you're giving Meher Mount to Baba

from the heart—one full of love—so, John,

_why not?_ A gift of such a loving sort,

God knows, would stand up in the Highest Court."

54. John Cooke Returns to Africa

Nor did He have to call me up to get

my heavenly reward. The high that I

was on for blissful days and weeks and months

were all the proof I needed that He'd given

it to me right there on highest earth.

As was the land, I felt my earthly clay

as free and clear of all encumbrances,

and gave myself to doing Baba's work:

I started teaching school part time down in

the nearby "lemon town" of Santa Paula

(fitting for a saint), and doing things

with kids, the poor, the home—but then I mustn't

get too far ahead of John. As soon

as he'd squared things away, his voices went

to work on him (one English, two in Muslim)

urging him, _with all haste_ , to get back

to the Dark Continent; he and the pair

had need to square unfinished business there.

55. Agnes Meets Meher Baba in Myrtle Beach

Blest weeks then blissful months went by, and not

a jungle drum from John. My spirits might have

sagged low if I hadn't held communion

closely, dearly, every day with Baba.

Lord! but how they soared when, all too few

and half a world between, I'd get a letter

postmarked "India." Though every one

was far too sweet for words, imagine when

one blest read-letter day, with trembling hands

(as if my heart's blood sugar'd sunk too low),

I couldn't wait to open it (as though

I sensed that some especial sweetness lay

inside) and, having got a trembling finger

neath a corner of the flap, I tore

it open with a wildly pounding heart,

and speed-read, "Dear Beloved Watchdog," oh,

and all the sweeter, _"I am coming to_

_the West_ _the 20_ th _of April"_ (all

italics—and unbounded March joy—mine).

The first soil to be sweetened by his foot,

would be in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina,

"Baba's new Home in the West." He'd be

_a_ _month_ there, then a _week_ in being driven

coast to distant coast to LA-LA Land

(where every day you spend there is a week),

before going on to Meher Mount—when I

had waited _six long years_! And, after all,

he'd only be a continent away

—and I could _fly_ to him in but a day.

I flew to him on April 26.

I'd sworn on leaving the Vedanta that

I'd nevermore accept someone into

my heart without I'd looked them in the eye.

He only had to hold His arms out, smiling,

silently, His shining, laughing eyes

bespeaking pure, Divine, unending love,

and I was but a six-years' child in whom

there was no doubting—it was an explosion:

I was flying, then my head was lying

on His shoulder, weeping out my heart.

When unconditionally in His hands,

He looked into my eyes and told me, as

no words could ever do, He loved me dearly.

In my wildest dreams I knew I couldn't

ask for more—nor would I have for knowing,

twenty-seven years before (man, weep

the day: July 10, 1925),

He spoke His last: "Because man has been deaf

to every principle of God, I shall,

in present form, observe a vow of silence."

So when I say Baba said this, Baba

said that, understand me: He spoke with

His eyes; and what He couldn't say to you

so all-expressively, in every language,

through His eyes (not much), He spelled out on

a handheld letter board, as to a child

of God—and I was that when His eyes smiled.

I'd found the sweet love of my life! So what

He wasn't "speaking" to me? Doubtless Adam

never spoke to Eve for some time after

she had eaten the forbidden fruit . . .

until, in time, she somehow then became

the apple of his eye. And when that eye

fell on another, no doubt Eve was not

on speaking terms with him for God knows how long.

So I took great heart from that (mine, after

all, was in His hands) and we went on

to touch on many things. One day He said

to Princess Matchabelli, "I want Agni,

Baba's fire, to know that only God

and Baba and she know of all the trouble

that she's gone to keeping Meher Mount

for me so—" " _Trouble,_ Baba?" What do you

mean trouble— _me_?" I said. Now it's a fact.

Like _that_ all the anxiety I'd had

with Bosford and his loony band of psychics

all those months was totally forgotten.

Isn't that the weirdest thing? I thought

it was; but then, all of an instant, Baba's

face, as if a storm cloud suddenly

passed over it, went ominously dark,

and He said, "Where is John?" I answered, "Baba,

I don't know. He's in _your_ pocket." He

looked very solemn, then said that He'd wanted

for us three to talk of Meher Mount.

He paced the room in agitation; but then,

by and by, the cloud passed overhead,

the light came back into His face, and He

moved on to other things. The days passed too.

But not a one went by he didn't ask

of John. One day, when it was getting near

my time to leave Him, Baba got this very

somber look upon his face and said,

" _No._ John is to have nothing more to do

with Meher Mount. He's never to come back there.

You must get him out—but no coercion."

I was struck dumb. Here He'd never met John,

yet it was as if He could foresee

in him, as I could not, some gathering sickness.

"Now," He said when that was settled, and

was His Divine Light self again, "you go back

and get ready for my visit." Then

He added (mostly with His loving eyes,

it seemed to me), "You mustn't go to any

trouble; I can sleep upon the floor

or on the ground beneath the Baba Tree."

Now wasn't that too purely sweet for words?

Anyone else, all too human, would have

thought it their due to be waited on,

both hand and so-much-less-than-His-sweet foot.

So then, as I had flown to Him—was flying

still—I tore myself from Baba and

began the longing trip to Meher Mount,

my whole heart wishing He might fly to me.

And only then did I think, "Baba Tree!"

56. Baba's Car Accident, Prague, Oklahoma

I wasn't back a week when Baba's five

male mandali arrived by carload, fooling

me; I thought they'd got there in a flap,

the way they clucked that Baba'd be there soon,

and went to mother henning round for His

arrival, much as if the sky was falling,

only flapping up to roost when, all in,

quite its biggest chunk, the sun, had fallen.

Day dawned clear; but, strangely, heavy, dark gray

clouds began to roll in from the east

and loom above the morning leadenly.

No azure glimpse of Heaven could be seen;

yet, paradoxically, an overarching

_blueness_ gloomily hung over all.

To add to this, an ominous low cloud,

speech-bubble–shaped, then blackened, and began

to rise up with all dispatch from the valley

floor below, then "stop"ed portentously,

loomed threateningly over all our heads

—then opened up on us with all its deluge

and its thunder: baba badly injured

in car accident prague oklahoma

_stop._ I didn't have to mouth the words.

The mandali could read it in my ashen

face. We raced, a human cloud of doubt,

downhill and called—the news was dismal: Baba

and his closest female mandali

(Elizabeth, and Baba's sister Mani,

Mehera, and Meheru) were injured,

Baba'd been thrown from the car, a wreck,

on Oklahoma soil, wet as with tears,

a broken leg and arm, face streaming blood.

The greater storm of gathering emotion,

at the news, broke hard upon us all.

Despite a strike, I got a flight for Donkin,

who flew back at once; the rest by car.

My heart was all that got to fly to Him;

the rest of me had to remain in tears.

The story flew back over twenty years:

May 1932, New York. The West.

His first trip, Baba, walking on the Hudson

shoreline picked and gave Elizabeth

a pink wildflower. "Always keep this flower,

and write down the date," He solemnly

spelled out, "that some day you might know

the meaning." That same day she pressed it dearly

in her Bible, writing next it: "Baba,

24 May, 1932,"

relieved (she knew not why) it wasn't blue.

The rain-gray morning of the accident,

while everyone stood waiting for His signal

to be going, Baba stood a long while

on His doorstep looking sad, withdrawn,

unusually still; then finally

walked slowly to the car and sunk down in

the Nash's front seat next Elizabeth.

They started out, but hadn't driven far

when Baba signaled for Elizabeth

to stop. He got out and paced up and down

the road, His head bent low, appearing careworn

and, she thought (not all alone), depressed.

Her mind flashed back on how, 3 years before,

on New Year's Day, He'd warned his startled lovers,

in an open letter, that "a great

disaster will befall me," adding 6 months

later, "I'll be faced with physical

annihilation, though not seeking it."

These thoughts were like a dark cloud on her mind

that morning as Elizabeth drove west

on Highway 62 through Oklahoma.

At the same time, east- and marriage-bound,

young Anthony Palmieri's thoughts were on

his brand new Mercury sedan equipped

with hand controls, its maiden run, and on

the maiden next him, Billie Hanson, who'd

soon be his bride. He wasn't thinking of

the legs he'd lost in the Korean War.

Going up a hill, the eager groom pulled out

to pass a truck, not knowing he'd soon be

precisely at the geographic center

of America where East meets West.

Accelerating rapidly, he reached

the crest still in the left oncoming lane.

In the back seat, Billie's mother saw

the blue Nash hurtling toward them fast,

and cried out, _"Oh, God, please don't let us die!"_

not knowing at that very moment God,

in Avataric form of Meher Baba,

silently was stretching out His awful

hand and pointing to the rapidly

oncoming car ( _thy word hath quickened me_ ).

His reflex instant, Anthony applied

the handbrakes, but the Mercury spun sideways

on the rain- and oil-slick asphalt, and

the blue Nash with South Carolina plates

smashed dreadfully head-on into its side.

The seat beside her empty ( _Who is on_

_the Lord's side? let him come . . ._ ), Elizabeth,

slumped on the wheel, a badly broken arm,

eleven ribs, spoke low, "Is he alive?"

With "Yes" she prayed that He, all would survive.

The small Prague clinic came alive. Worst off

was Mehera: Her skull, the doctor later

said, looked like an egg dropped on the floor.

He thought she wouldn't live long. Meheru's wrists

were broken. Mani, who'd been sleeping, and

miraculously spared of all but minor

injuries, sobbed, "Baba sacrificed

Himself, and suffered that I might be spared."

"The women who were conscious kept on saying

'Baba this' and 'Baba that,' " the doctor

said, "imploring me to tend to him.

The way he beamed and smiled away at me

convinced me that he wasn't badly injured.

When I saw how grievously he was,

I was amazed, the more so when he didn't

speak or make a sound. I thought he couldn't,

and was even more astounded when

I learned he did so in observing willful

silence. He just kept on looking at me

with his big brown eyes, and smiling, as if

he could read my mind. I knew I'd have

to put him out to set his broken bones,

and I was sure he'd utter something under

anesthesia. To my surprise

he never made a sound. I was astonished."

Baba smiled on coming to, but then,

as if a cloud passed over it, His face

got darkly serious. He motioned for

His letter board, and with His good hand spelled out:

"It was willed that I should spill my blood,

an Indian's, upon this darkest soil,

the tear-soaked heartland of America,

for benefit of humankind; for one

who'd spilled his blood upon Korean soil

more than enough, so he and those so dear

and near him in the car controlled by hand,

that hand above, were spared of giving more,

as long was willed, this 24th of May

of 1952." They'd _not_ been hurt;

not one shed blood. But none told Baba so.

_How_ , in the name of God, then, did He know?

[In later years Elizabeth would find

the pink wildflower pressed so lovingly

between the hallowed pages of her Bible,

writ above it in her young hand, 20

years ago exactly to the day, "From Baba,

24 May, 1932,"

and weep afresh to see it had turned blue.]

57. Trail of Tears

So Baba did not fly to me. When tender

care and 12 days had done all they could,

to make them whole, he and the female mandali

were ambulanced to Myrtle Beach to loving

arms; then, 2 weeks later, Baba flew

back home to India to manifest

more of the pure, sweet blood He'd spilled for us,

to once more be full-blooded Indian.

I never doubted that it was the purest,

sweetest; certainly I never thought

that He could have a more superlative

degree, until it came to blessed light,

years later, when a Native Indian,

a Cherokee, discovered that the route

that Baba'd followed leaving Myrtle Beach

to fly to me was most the "Trail of Tears,"

as wept by all the Choctaw, Seminole,

Creek, Chickasaw, and Cherokee so forced

by cruel and heartless government decree:

the Indian Removal Act— _the_ _shame!—_

to relocate, in dead of winter, from

their native lands east of the Mississippi's

Deep South to the newly designated

"Indian Territory," Oklahoma.

Through nine states, across two thousand miles,

more thousands, many shoeless, died of cold,

disease, starvation (handful of boiled corn,

a turnip, two cups of warm water daily).

The "Five Tribes" all had their own name for it.

The Cherokee was _Nunna daul Isunyi,_

"the Trail Where They Cried." I cried to think

how Baba'd shed His blood upon the Trail

in sympathy, the purest, sweetest He

could give: the most superlative degree.

58. Legend of the Cherokee Rose

The _Cherokee Rose Legend_ has it that

the mothers of the Cherokee so grieved

and cried they couldn't help their helpless

children to survive. The elders prayed

to their Great Spirit for a sign to lift

the mothers' spirits, and to give them strength.

He heard their cries and prayers, and was so moved

that where the mothers' tears fell to the ground,

he turned each into stone shaped like a rose.

Next day, a lovely rose with snow-white petals,

for their tears, began to grow, its center

gold for that the grieving mothers' hearts

were gold, with seven leaves upon each stem

for each of seven Cherokee clans who

so suffered and died on the Trail of Tears

where, to this day, where all their tears had been,

the wild white Cherokee Rose may be seen.

59. John Cooke Returns from Africa with Polio

I wept for all my love could never equal

Baba's love, that I could only give

myself to Him to a comparative

degree; and yet with all my heart I gave it,

freely, lovingly, and in so doing,

gave myself to doing Baba's work

against the day His foot would sweetly touch

on Meher Mount and make it holy, His;

the holiest of mountaintops there is.

The months went by. And then one day my heart

leapt up to get a letter _in John's hand_ ,

from Africa—and just as quickly fell,

and grieved and would have flown to him. _Poor John!_

Somehow he had contracted polio,

and now was paralyzed below his chest.

I wrote to him at once: "Oh, John, come back

to Meher Mount! Drink of its sulphur water,

take, in draughts, its spiritual air.

If it's God's will, they'll cure you, John—and prayer."

John came, and it just broke your heart to see

how much, how sorrowfully he'd changed. I really

didn't need to see him in his wheelchair,

pale and thin and pitiful, to see,

through tears, a young and strong and good man broken.

It was all there in his lifeless eyes.

And not just in the flesh that's all too weak;

His spirit had been crushed like Zinfandels.

His sister came and cared for him and tried

to transfuse life and hope back into him,

but no amount of love and sweet compassion

could restore the vital juice crushed out.

She stayed until she couldn't. John withdrew

into another world. He started drinking;

and when that no longer dulled the pain

and gave him something to feel good about

in life, he turned to drugs, behaving badly.

"John, you can't do this, it's Baba's place,"

I told him, hurt me as it did, yet hurt me

all the more to add, "John, you need help,

you're sick." At that he flew into a rage:

"I want my money back—or I want to

take charge of Meher Mount." "Look, John," I said,

"if once you give your money or like to

a church or charity you can't come back

years later saying now you want it back.

What made you change your mind?" John raised his chin

and took on something of a haughty air:

"God has his whims, and God changes his mind

—and _I_ am God." My heart sank; John had lost

his mind. He ran on how he was the blest

messiah all the Muslims had been waiting

for these centuries. I saw it all:

the fears I'd had when John first got it in

his head to run off (mad) to Africa

had come to pass: witch doctors got inside

his head and sucked black magic up his nose

that he was their messiah, come to their

salvation, just to get his money; and

then put, as black as hell, a crushing voodoo

spell of polio upon him to

get rid of him. I knew they had a power,

but I never dreamed so much that they

could get in someone's head a half a world

away; that they'd been at him all along.

Then in a flash I saw what Baba'd seen

in John: bewitched, he was beyond vaccine.

John went off and was driven mad to town.

The next day late his sister showed up. Once

again John said he wanted to take charge

of Meher Mount. "John, if you want to be

in charge of Meher Mount, perhaps you should.

Let's write to Baba and see what He says."

Okay, they said, and we agreed to get

together in the morning and write Baba.

When I looked next morning they were gone.

That's odd, I thought. When they came back I said,

"Do you want to write that letter now?"

"We've written it, and sent it off," she said,

"But we were to have written it together.

Well, what did you say?" I said, downcast.

"Oh, well, you know," she said, "what we discussed."

So much for that. Right after lunch she left.

Three weeks went by. One day two letters came

from India. I quickly took John his,

then rushed off, trembling hands, to tear mine open.

"Dear Beloved Watchdog," it began.

My eyes tore on. "I love you dearly and

trust you implicitly," I read through tears,

"and want you to stay on at Meher Mount."

His words could not have been more touching, yet,

so sweetly, there were more, "I'm sending you

the letter I received from John." I read:

"Dear Baba, Agnes isn't spiritual

enough to be in charge of Meher Mount.

The birds aren't singing, the dogs are unhappy,

I found a dead possum in the road,

which means . . ." and he went on like that, ". . . the only

people she attracts are troubled people.

Therefore, Baba, I think I should be

in charge of Meher Mount from now on, don't

you think?" Poor John! He'd gone completely mad.

I'd barely read it twice when there was John.

"You got a letter. What did Baba say?"

"Well, John, you got one too. What did yours say?"

He went all red, which only made him all

the angrier, at which he spun his chair

around and wheeled off just as madly as

a mind bewitched could go. That afternoon

he and his sister packed their things and left.

It breaks my heart I didn't run and hold

John close—O God, I would have run heartsore

had I known then I'd never see John more.

A week had not gone by when real estate

men showed up with commission in their eyes,

and that commission, I could see, was _sin._

I saw no way out. Feeling like a cornered

rat, I felt the moral ground beneath me

slip. _It's his fault, San Andreas's_ ,

I thought at once, because I felt my whole

self quake. Before I knew it (God forgive me)

less-than-saintly words were out my mouth:

"Okay," I snapped, "you want to get involved

in litigation?" "No!" they answered. "No,

you don't," I shot back. "John's name may be on

the deed, but I've got his name on a mighty

_good deed_ he did Meher Baba, saying

he's donating Meher Mount to Him."

As if I'd struck in them the fear of God,

they left me in my less-than-saintly guise.

But just as fast as they were leaving me

alone, I flashed on Baba spelling out

I mustn't use coercion against John,

and I took that to mean no legal action.

What was I to do? I wouldn't trouble

Baba; he had all humanity

to think of. Meher Mount was up to me.

_God help me!_ No, I hadn't even that

to call upon. I agonized on what

to do. If John was fixed on selling it

right out from under Baba's sweet feet, who

on earth, on _His_ own earth, was going to stop Him?

Not a soul, not so much as a saint.

None. No dog ever worried more its bone

than I so worried mine each fraught day through.

I tried to bury it, but just like murder

will out, it kept popping up, but yet

I kept it to myself, like any ill-will

witch would do a witch's brew until . . .

60. Beth and Tom McNell Purchase Meher Mount

One summer day a fresh sweet breeze blew in

from Santa Barbara: Beth and Tom McNell,

the dearest couple who'd been coming to

love Baba and becoming loving friends.

How ever did they know their breezing in

out of the blue like that was just the thing

to blow the dark and heavy cloud above

my head and Meher Mount away, if only

for a day? You never saw such azure

overhead! You never heard such magpies.

Then the more out of the blue Beth said,

"Oh, Agnes dear, you're going to wear yourself out

with the worry. Why don't you let us

put up the money?" I was speechless, as I'd

been the while about John's having gone off,

putting Baba's Place upon the block.

"But," I said in disbelief when I

had finally got it back, "how did you know?"

"Oh, let's just say," Beth said and smiled, "we have

our ways." I'd got my tongue back, but to be

at total loss for words. Although I hadn't

called on Him, it was as if He'd answered

all my prayers, which is to say one. "Yes,"

Tom chimed in (how on earth did he know I'd

been looking for that very word—all over?),

"you could pay us monthly on a lease-

to-own, say two years, which could be renewed.

_You_ 'd be in full possession and, in time,

have equity enough to get a loan." "Then, dearest,"

Beth said, "Baba's Place would be in _your_ name.

All your Watchdog worries would be gone."

I found my voice where I'd not dreamed to look,

in _utter_ happiness: "God, _yes!_ " I cried,

"but strictly business—you're to have your interest,

just as He's my witness I'd have mine!"

With a stroke the cloud above my head

and over Meher Mount was blown away.

At long last I could truly live out Baba's

living word: _Don't worry_ (in the past!).

_Be happy_ (God in Heaven—how I was!).

I taught, worked with the poor, with kids, with youth.

Did I say "work"? Pure _joy!_ God's honest truth.

Two blissful months went by, and then my god-sent

saviors blessed me with their sweet, beloved

company once more. Three magpies once

again were heard in deep, full-throated chorus.

Somehow, though, it seemed as if two sang

a slightly different tune: "Oh, Agnes," Beth said,

"you are going to wear yourself out working

so much, keeping up the payments. Why not

just let Tom and me take over." "But

it's only been two months," I sang out with

a note of hurt, "I thought I had two _years._ "

"Look, you could stay on," Tom said, "and be free

of all the burde—" "No!" I said, all song

out of my voice. "I promised Baba I'd

keep Meher Mount for Him through hellfire and

damnation—and I will!" All singing ceased.

They left, and I was at a grievous loss

to say who, I or nature, more abhorred

the vacuum, straightway into which a dark cloud

swept, then stopped and hung directly over

me, our friendship, Meher Mount—the _all,_

and seemed as if, an axe, a sword, would fall.

I would have been in some high-numbered Heaven,

as the months went by, had it not been

for that dark cloud above, and rumblings out of

Santa Barbara. Months, a year went by;

and with each month approaching two,

the rumblings and the worry mounted more

and more. Sure, they said the agreement was

renewable—but was it at _their_ whim?

Neck deep in worry, how my head did swim.

61. Child Harold Purchases Meher Mount

But what were all its thrashings to the stroke

of fortune come—with but a month to go:

as if some witching spirit had been working

up the pure, thin mountain air by way

of conjuring, this youngish, seemingly

uprighteous man appeared before my worried

eyes. "I met you several years ago

when I first came to Ojai [he'd the better

of me there]. Boccali's? Harold Dean?

[I couldn't place him for the life of me.]

You took me, then, with your philosophy

of teaching. I'm a teacher, too, retired.

I made a lot of money on a slick

invention. Here's what I've come to propose:

Why don't we open up a school together?

I'd put up the cash to build the school;

you, your philosophic teaching rule."

O Lord! was he for _real_? Or just a ghostly

apparition too good to be true?

As luck (or Fate) would have it, dear Professor

Chatterjee was visiting me then.

He'd know if he was spirit or true flesh.

They talked. He liked Dean and his school idea;

more, agreed it seemed the perfect setup.

He to Dean: "Well, do you have the money,

young man?" Dean: "I do," He did, and went

to Beth and Tom and paid them off. And happy?

_I_ was, yes—but, bought out, they were _put_ out.

So much so they bought a place just down

from Meher Mount and moved there. Later I

heard from a neighbor that they'd told him, "They

won't make a go of it—and we're just going

to sit here till they bust—then snap it up

again." It turned out they _loved_ Baba's Place;

had coveted it for themselves and all

of their exotic birds and animals

the whole time. Isn't that weird, how good friends

will forge beginnings to achieve their ends?

So on a day young Dean (Child Harold as

I thought of him warmheartedly) and I

met in his lawyer's den to sign the papers.

(Was I Daniel—in the Lion's Den?)

I feared not, though; I knew my faith undying.

But when it came round to how much money

he was putting in to build the school,

Child Harold's roar sent shivers up my spine:

"I'm not prepared to put my assets in

at this time." My gut instinct was to cry out,

"Daniel said no such thing—he had _faith_!"

I said, "What do you mean? We were agreed.

Explain yourself." But once again he roared,

"I'm not prepared to put my assets in

at this time." His own lawyer was as shocked

as I. My woman's intuition hadn't

erred perceiving Dean Child Harold; yet

fell grossly short of sensing just _how_ childish.

"Well in that case," I said, "I'm not signing."

That was that. I got my own attorney.

"Break it!" he said. "That man's up to no good;

He'll convene a board—and vote you out."

"But can he do that?" "Yes, he can—and will."

A meeting was arranged between us three.

He said to Dean: "Just what game are you pulling

on my client?" It all came out then:

"I don't like her naïve philosophy

— _Meheresy_ of God—in Meher Baba _._

I'm devoutly Presbyterian.

No other faiths, in my mind, need apply."

_God help me!_ I thought, _not another Bosford!_

What in God's name have I got myself

and Baba's Place—His very Heaven—into

How in His name do I get it out?

My lawyer well knew: "False pretenses! Breach

of promise, Dean!" He didn't have to find

him guilty (although he and I both did).

That guilt so went to work on him (he knew

he'd done me wrong, and childishly) that he

soon dropped his eyes along with his school plans,

and, _miracle of miracles!_ then offered

to extend me the same lease-to-own

as Beth and Tom—and at so fair a rate

of lease-on- _life_ that I could well afford

to get down on my knees and thank the Lord.

_The Lord!_ I might have known! I don't know why

I had to go down on my knees to see

I'd Him to thank. _Of course!_ this whole affair

was Baba's work. What need had Beth and Tom,

or Harold for that childish matter,

to buy Baba's Place, then give me so much

as a fingernail leasehold upon it,

with the option I could get my fingers,

then my ever loving hands upon it.

They both clearly coveted it for

themselves, and could have bought—and put me off—it,

leaving me not so much as a leg

to stand on, as then, knelt in prayer, I'd not.

I saw it plain: this all was Baba's way

of pushing me along upon His string,

just like a little fish; his way of testing

little Agni, seeing if I'd all

the fire and force of character that He

requires of his disciples; fire that He

might put my feet to, see if I had all

it takes to put myself through hellfire and

damnation keeping His Place and my promise.

Yes, I know: you say, "That's errant nonsense;

you can't push a string." That's right, _you_ can't;

but God, in human form of Meher Baba,

_can_ —and easily—push come to shove.

Didn't He hard push the envelope

with the giraffe, the gooney bird, the whale,

the elephant, the duck-billed platypus,

the one- and two-humped camel—more, with us?

Yes, there was no doubt: Baba was just pushing

me along from hour to hour, day

to day, and month to month, and year to year;

from one love-burning trial by fire to

the next one hotter—all so He might see

just how far He could push my promise, me.

And saints alive! as steadily and hard

as through the years He pushed me on, not once,

no single time did that string ever bend,

not in the slightest. Yet the more He pushed

with all His might, the more I went along

with _joy_ and swelling heart for knowing He

but did so out of boundless love for me.

62. Agnes Purchases Meher Mount

So when Child Harold came to me a year on

into my new lease-on-life and said

he'd rather vouch for me down at the bank,

so I could get a mortgage on my own,

I wasn't so naïve as to believe

that he was being Harold Sweet. I knew

that it was Baba's way of pushing me

to take up all 172

pledged acres on my woman's shoulders like

the 49-year-old devoted Atlas

that I was—for _33_ more years,

so, come that blessed day in _'89,_

why, only 82, I might, with the

undying fire for Him in me still yearning,

light, then watch, through tears, the mortgage burning.

Although the eyes through which I pored, through tears,

upon my signature upon that blessed

deed that day were thirty-five years younger,

I could hardly bring myself to quite

believe them; take them at their full face value:

Ten years of nonstop anxiety

that Meher Mount would fall into some godless

hands—and be forever lost—was over;

Baba's Place was in _my_ name—and safe!

through hellfire and damnation—let it come!

I couldn't wait to fly up there and write Him

all about it, till I caught myself

mid–giddy flight and had to laugh out loud

(how easily it came!) at my pretension:

what a goose! Imagine my presuming

to tell Baba what His hand, the hand

that held the string that pushed me on, as well

as all the other strings that worked Child Harold,

Beth and Tom like little marionettes,

had just performed. That sudden onset of

humility might well have brought me down

to earth, except I sensed I needed to

maintain my still high-flying altitude

just then in order to accommodate

my newly heightened sense of expectation:

_What next_ from that blest hand of creation?

Pushed to such an elevated high,

I surely would've overflown the land,

so dizzyingly in my name, but for

some earthly serendipity: no sooner

did I think me highest of the high

(my lightsome feet were _so_ high off the ground),

than all at once I felt my stomach in

my throat as if that serendipity

had reached its pinnacle-of-happy peak

and, like a Holy Roller Coaster who

has reached the apex of his own religious-

fervored high, _abruptly dipped its top_

_and set me down_ , but oh so lightly

like a handkerchief dropped from His hand,

whereon I saw that, while that handkerchief

was in His hand, I saw His hand in _it_ ;

that, while He'd dropped us from His hand, we all

were still held _dear_ —the roller coaster land,

the handkerchief, I, all—in Baba's hand.

63. We Shall Walk the Land Together

And yet, no sooner had I been set down

than I was flying heavenward again

for one more precious thing in Baba's hand:

a blessed envelope! one He had pushed,

by loving hand, halfway around the world

yet not (thank God!) with all His might and main.

"Beloved Watchdog, Cherished Agni," He

began, when mine had flown to open it,

"I love you dearly [yes! oh, _yes!_ —but my eyes

couldn't wait to linger high above

those loving words and let the rain of tears

fall down on them for all the expectation,

higher, ever mounting, back of them,

impelling them on, urging them to skim

above words just as loving far below

for those ahead I dared to dream were far

the sweetest]. _"I am coming to the West_

and shall set foot on Meher Mount late morning,

_August 2_ nd [tears were coming too]."

Thank God! He'd not pushed with His might and main

at all. His hand had written it in such

a blessed way that I could not, no matter

how I cried, read into it a "might"

or "may," or feared conditional "God willing."

No, not on the trembling life that He

held in the palm of that hand, His forever;

He was sure: _late morning, August 2_ nd _._

"We shall walk the land together; this time

I will shed my blessing," and I saw,

through my own trail of tears, that it was far,

far better, sweeter yet, that "you shall be,

beloved of me, my Chosen One to drive

me from the City of the Angels to

my Chosen Land" (we'd take the God-blest trail

as Jean and I in 1946,

10 years before—dear God, where had they flown?—

in _30 days_ to come. Oh, Lord, how I

wished that eternity as fast might fly!).

You may have guessed it didn't, but at least

I took control in Baba's work; and when,

at last, that most august of days dawned clear

to end the whole-month-long eternity,

in instant measure I _lost_ that control,

all, flying into Baba's open arms

to once more wet His sadra with my tears

of _gladness,_ holding on for dear life, only

letting go of Him by force to take

the wheel, He next to me as close as I

to God, His closest mandali in back,

and back of them the others in a bus.

But no Lot's wife was I—I never looked

behind to leave the city so. I knew

I'd quake with sobs to see, for all the Angels

wept to let Him go, those sweet communal

pillars turned to San Andreas salt

for all that they bewept Him to a fault.

64. The Hands of God

Out in the beautiful and fertile farmland,

Baba's eyes and interest grew the wider,

one, I sensed, with every living thing.

Yet He, as if He'd long foreseen this day,

had, two years past, outgrown His letter board

for gestures with His hands, which grew more sweetly

beautiful in their expressiveness

with time; so close disciple and translator

Eruch Jessawala had to grow

more eloquent than any chosen man

could rightly be expected to, the voice,

yet so much more, the living word of God:

" _What trees are those? How do they irrigate?_

What's that they're picking? Who are they, their backs

bent constantly? How little are they paid?"

I mean it was fantastic. That's what so

impressed me about Baba: he was like

a real estate man, _"_ _What's this? What's this? What's this?"_

Not the slightest thing escaped His vision.

He just zoomed right in, completely focused

on the present. That's what we can't do.

He wasn't living in the past or future

like we do, or somewhere in the deep,

unfathomed reaches of His Godhead. He was

always _right there,_ living in the moment,

in the _Who?_ the _What?_ the _When?_ the _How?_

—just as He's living it right here, right now.

The moment I'd been waiting for for years

was close at hand, and I grew more and more

excited. Any moment now we'd reach

the summit of the Upper Valley and

see Sulphur Mountain, as I had ten years

before, when I'd be able to touch Baba

on the shoulder, catch His eye, and then

point to the stand of graceful eucalyptus

standing high above the oaks, and with

a decade-long-pent-up excitement in

my voice, blurt out, " _Look,_ Baba, there's your place!"

The moment came, but when I caught His eyes,

I saw that they were way ahead of me,

as wide as one transfixed on Heaven's door,

and _shining_ as I'd never seen before.

65. Baba Walks on Water

So fixed, they never let it go or shone

one candle power less, but held it as

a saint holds to her faith until, the mountain

all too near, they lost all sight as when

one cannot see the Purest for the trees.

Beneath the leafy canopy we climbed—up,

higher, higher, yet for all we did,

we never rose as high as my excitement

at the prospect, stunning in its grandeur,

of that other moment. Still the winding

went on, upward, ever upward—then,

just when I thought the mainspring of my taut

emotions couldn't take another winding

turn, the sky!—as blue as Heaven gets—

the driveway, through the gate, one last low rise,

and then that sight past singing—we were there!

What need had I to sing in pulling up,

for crying, "Baba, _wait!_ " Then I was out

and rushing, gushing to His other side

and opening His door so I might see,

and savor that so-long-awaited moment

when the foot that walked on water in

another blessed age would first touch down

and sweeten all the soil of Meher Mount,

its pH balanced by a saline rain,

He walking upon water once again.

66. Doghead Greeting Godhead

Before His foot could touch, a nose was there

to gauge its sweetness. "Baba," I said, "here's

the spirit of all Meher Mount. Meet Kali."

Kali's laughing eyes looked up at Baba,

doghead greeting Godhead. Baba's own eyes

laughed in close communion, looking down.

He touched her dog-in-heaven head, and gestured,

smiling sweetly, "She will be a human

being in her next life." Kali's face

said she was touched to have her doghead touched,

acknowledging her dog divinity;

and while she wasn't human, yet, still _she_

was satisfied, in looking up, eyes laughing

more, her proud head high, to be on much

the same plane with the Godhead. Bless His touch!

67. This Land Is Very Old; I Walked It Long Ago

Then it was Baba's turn: He raised His head,

looked up, then closed His eyes and breathed in deeply.

High above His head the eucalyptus

gently swayed, and then, as if on wings,

flew down, the bird of paradise, and up

His God Almighty nose, so sweetly touching

Him upon His Godhead, He could, like

the jealous breeze that sighed through them, but sigh

so silently inside. Before it ceased,

the bus pulled up and heaved wave after wave

of sigh on sigh. Then Baba's gestures said,

"This land is very old; I walked it long

ago." Another wave of sighing broke.

"This land is very spiritual," He gestured.

"Baba, I'm not such a saint," I said.

I'm not responsible for it." "But, Agni,"

Baba gestured, feigning shock. "You mean

to say that you've deceived me all this time?"

All laughed, at my expense, including me.

Then Baba, with a motion of His arm,

(and which had all the strength of a commandment),

warmly ushered us into the house

for darshan, blessing we'd have, bless His heart.

As we moved, one, toward the "Baba House,"

a falling leaf above us winged its way

down right before our eyes and visibly

(we saw) _touched_ Baba: "In His next life He

will be a most Almighty Human-God,"

it rustled softly. We all entered awed.

68. Buddha Belly

Though all His life He'd never had a sweet tooth,

Baba's eyes on entering, as though

lured on the dashing rocks by Sirens, fell

upon a tempting bowl of fruit, and He

consumed, to everyone's surprise, a large

and luscious bunch of Ojai Valley grapes.

It's all the sweetness in the air," He gestured.

It's wakened memories of India,

so long ago, when I was Buddha putting

on my Buddha belly on its fruits.

You who have never been there cannot know

how lucky you are to be here with me,

so close, because in India those who

are ready to give up their lives for me

must file past to see me, and the crowds

are so immense they have time only for

a glance or touch from me before someone

is pushing them to move on from behind.

Yet I have come down to your level so

that we can laugh, be free together here

—but, at the same time, don't forget that I

am, even so, the Highest of the High."

69. Baba Speaks

I tried to picture Baba in His Buddha

incarnation, Buddha belly sticking out,

and then as Jesus Christ, Mohammed, Krishna . . .,

but His present sweet embodiment

was just too overmastering. And then

He said, "I want you all to close your eyes

for five minutes. Think of nothing else,

just think of Baba." Dutifully, we all

sat silently and thought of only Him.

A long, hushed minute passed, and then we heard

His stomach rumbling. We all burst out laughing.

So much for the silence. Baba patted

it, smiled wide, and gestured, "It is good,

for it is well known: belly laughter is

good for the soul." And then He raised His hand

and patted His head soundly, smiling still,

and gestured, "I bear the whole universe

upon my head; now this is one more sort of

crucifixion, since the unaccustomed

fruit does not agree with me. But, now,

go out and see the view, you have my blessing;

try to love me through my other nature,

which is all due to my love. This whole

creation, all this beauty that you see

on every side, it all came out of me."

I'd loved it for ten years, but now I loved it

all the more in loving Him through it.

We drank our fill, but as with Baba, all

its sweetness but the more stoked belly fires

for all its other savors (all through Him),

so tantalizingly prepared, with love,

including fresh-baked bread (that friendliest

of staffs whose several life members Baba

called upon to soundproof all the rumblings),

which prasad or gift of food that's offered

first in worship (bless you!) to a saint,

and was so toothsome to our eyes, we ate

with zest beneath the swaying eucalyptus,

thankful He'd so quipped and so equipped us.

70. No More Grapes on Earth

The staff was most solicitous of Baba's

belly, and it soon made cease its rumblings

( _thy prasad and staff they comfort me_ )

as well indeed, in sympathy, our own.

Yet not an hour later (as if He

had eaten Chinese food) there rose another

rumbling out of Baba that expressed

another hunger He would be appeased of:

that of touring Meher Mount. At that

we set off in a party, Kali leading

I and Baba, Eruch close behind

and holding the umbrella shielding Baba

from the August sun, the party panting

to keep up. Atop the rise, the highest

point of Meher Mount, we came upon

the leafy-arbored swimming pool whose potent

sulphur water served as reservoir

in case of wildfire. Baba pointed to

the vines, a look of strong displeasure on

His face, and gestured, "Grapes again!" He stood

as if in deepest thought. And no one spoke.

Then Baba got a very solemn look

upon His face, and then He snapped His fingers

loudly, and said, "I've made my decision."

We all stood with bated breath in wonder

of His most profound decision. He

went on, "When I come back in 700

years there will be no more grapes on earth

—and maybe that will help the liquor problem

too." And then He looked at Dana who

was taking notes throughout the tour to go

into his chronicle and said, "be sure

to put that in there, Dana, there will be

no grapes—not one—in 700 years.

On second thought, on my long-waited birth,

let each one guess why there aren't grapes on earth."

71. Baba's Limits

Before the mirth, and one last Avatar

before the grapes, died, Baba had us on

the run again, and puffing to keep up.

He wanted to see all of Meher Mount,

the points to which it fell on every side,

and, like His mind, His bright all-seeing eyes

were everywhere at once—and where they went

His omnipresent body was as sure

to follow, and so fast, that the umbrella

Eruch held more often than not shaded

ground His feet had sweetened in a passed life.

Baba wanted me to show Him all

around the legal limits of His earthly

Heaven; but for heavy growth on down

its sides and steepness not God-wrought for mortals,

I could not to save my soul, and had

to tell Him so. At which He sweetly played

at being much put out and disappointed

with me. "But Beloved Watchdog," He said,

"weren't you watching to see where my limits

were laid down, as lines drawn in the sand,

beyond which there is no salvation." "Baba,"

I said, "do you want us all to get

all scratched up with the sage—and driven mad

for poison oak's fire-itch on top of that?"

"My heart's fire, can it be you place, in fear,

a bloody scratch, a fiery itch above me?

Driven madder than your itch to love me?

72. The Baba Tree

"Don't worry, just be happy," all the laughter

in His eyes and on His face as much as

gaily sang out. Baba's playfulness

was ever too much for me. Always he

was seven hundred steps ahead of me,

which quickly carried us back up the hill

and straight up to a lone, great live oak hundreds

of years old atop it near the pool.

And all at once my mind retraced the steps

of more than two times 700 days

to Myrtle Beach: ". . . or on the ground beneath

the Baba Tree"—of course! the tree that Baba

had foreseen 4 years ago beneath

which He could sleep. I'd never put the 2

together, as if I'd impatiently

been waiting for Him all these years to do.

Or had He not foreseen but _seen_ it in

His former incarnation? Either way

He knew it, smiled in greeting, and then dipped

beneath its great low-hanging branches, as

we did, and stood inside the leafy tent,

still smiling, looking up and round. And then

He moved some paces off and sat down on

its bed of dry leaves, signaling that we

should stand. His eyes shone in the half-light

speaking for Him, "I love Meher Mount

so very much, and I feel happy here.

Then He arose and swiftly led us down

the hill with Kali, ever faithful (much as

if she walked with God too) at His heels,

as every dog toward its master feels.

73. Baba's Moods

Agnes with Meher Baba _in the "Babaroom" of the guest house, August 2, 1956._

No sooner were we quickly back than Baba,

ever the Good Shepherd, gathered us

within the fold, His manifold embrace.

"I told you all that we would play and feel

relaxed here. You don't realize how lucky

you all are when I embrace you all,

the last for a long time. I wanted you

to have the chance of being close to me,

because as you become more intimate

with me, all that is good and bad in you,

all the _sanskaras_ , deep impressions, dents,

and scars that karma leaves upon the soul

and keeps your minds on _maya,_ life's illusions,

all come flying out as sparks, as you

have seen my moods come flying out of me."

"Yes, sometimes," Eruch as himself said, "Baba's

blest lighthearted mood comes out, and He

is happy, and so makes us happy too.

Then suddenly He has a change of mood,

appearing to us very tired and sick

—like something's happened to Him, yet there's nothing

we can see. Then just as quickly He

is overflowing with Divinest love,

and all we want to do is love Him back.

And then another mood comes flying out,

and Baba's very stern or fiery, and

at moments like that we'd like not to love Him,

but respect Him, and just wait for Him

to, like the moody mountain weather, change."

"No one can understand my ways. I am

beyond your understanding," Baba said.

"Yet this you can, and need to, know of me:

I am in everyone. I am not just

this body here. I am the silent ocean.

Love me and you'll find me everywhere.

And when I break my silence, like the ocean

wild, the world will hear me with devotion."

Giving us His blessing once more, Baba

turned us out to pasture, so to speak,

to graze or gambol as we would, or lie down

with the lambs, yet ever under His

Beloved Sheepgod eye, while he gave private

darshans, then took late tea with His mandali.

His will, in letting us go willy-nilly,

was to leave by six o'clock, He said,

that He might get back to the Angels well

before dark so they wouldn't have to cry

themselves to sleep; yet I too sadly knew

that _whatsoever_ time we left would be

devoid of light, and that the saint to cry

herself to sleep this dark night would be I.

74. Baba Sets Conditions for Agnes's Drive to San Francisco

As afternoon was waning Baba called

me in. He wanted to discuss some things

about the morning flight to San Francisco.

Only later would I come to see

that Baba, even then, was working to

perform a miracle because of my

stupidity. The plan was for us all

to fly up. "Baba," I then blurted out,

"I'm going to drive up in the station wagon

overnight." " _No_ ," Baba said, a worried

look upon His face. "You can't. I want

us all to fly together as a group."

"But, Baba," I said, "it makes sense for me

to drive up. I can take a lot of things

up for the others. And then I can drive

back home, and save the fund the cost of flying."

I thought I was being reasonable.

Baba kept on saying no. At last

He said that I could drive up if I found

somebody who could share the driving, and

we drove not more than 40 miles per hour,

and if we stopped every hour for coffee,

and we didn't eat. "It makes you sleepy."

"Baba, we will never get there at

that rate." He clapped his hands, and that was that."

So quickly I ran out and said, "Hey, Adi,

want to drive to San Francisco with me?"

He said, "Yeah, yeah, it'll be great fun.

But don't ask Baba straight out. He'll say, 'No.' "

And then he told me of this convoluted

way to beat around the bush. And so

we went into the Baba Room, and just

one look from Baba and I totally

forgot what Adi'd said, and I just blurted,

"Baba, Adi's going to drive up with me."

Baba looked all hurt. "You traitor, Adi.

You are _leaving_ me?" Well Adi just

collapsed, embarrassed, and went all to pieces.

Once again I rushed outside and said,

"Hey, Lud, you want to drive to San Francisco

with me?" "Yeah, sure, it'll be a fun trip."

So we went inside, and I said smugly,

"Baba, I got someone." Baba said,

"Lud, didn't I put you in charge of doing

such and such?" And Lud said, "That's right, Baba,

I forgot about it." Once again

I rushed outside, and saw Lud's wife, and said,

"Hey, Bea, you want to drive to San Francisco

with me?" "Yeah, great." We went in and Baba

said, "Bea, do you see all right?" And Bea

said, "Well, I have night blindness—" "You can't go."

_Ah, just you wait_ , I thought, and once again

I rushed out, but I couldn't find someone.

Then Baba called me in and said, "This man

is going to drive to San Francisco with you."

_No, he's not_ , I thought. I didn't like him.

Then, quick as a flash, I said, "Well do you

have a driver's license?" "I just got it."

"Have you driven up to San Francisco?"

"No, I—" "Baba, it's impossible.

He doesn't know the way; he'll get us lost."

Well Baba knew that I knew He knew I

was trying to put a fast one over on Him.

"Baba, I'll get someone else," I said,

and dashed out, but I found no one, and Baba

didn't call me back, so I decided

I'd drive up alone, none else provided.

The afternoon gave way to evening. Soon

we'd have to leave for L.A. Someone said

that Baba wished to see me. When I went in,

He was standing with a young man, Lenny,

whom I liked a lot, he looking downcast,

like he'd lost his best friend in the whole world.

"Lenny's going to drive up with you," Baba

said. "Hey, Lenny, that's great. It'll be

a lark. We'll have a great time," I said, sensing

that he badly needed cheering up.

I'd learn that Baba'd broken his engagement:

"Your best friend and your fiancée are

in love," He'd told him gently, "and they want

to marry. They have not known how to tell you.

They don't want to hurt your feelings. You

must let her go. I ask you to release her."

That's the forlorn state I found him in.

I'd later see that Baba's pairing him

with me was His compassionate way of

my helping get him over his lost love.

75. Waves of Joy and Sorrow

The sun was still above the western hills

when Baba patted Kali on her doghead,

saying she would be a very _special_

human being in her next life—His

most faithful follower—then smiled and eased

into the seat beside me, Kali smiling

back, and closed the door and rolled the window

down so He might taste the sweetness to

the last. The bus would be returning the

same way we came, but Baba wanted me

to take Him south along the coast that He

might see the sparkling ocean that was Him,

and, seeing His reflection, be assured

He looked His best for His awaiting Angels.

Parting ways at Santa Paula, turning

due south, Baba put His hand atop

my head, and said, "Now promise to drive slowly."

"Baba," I said, "I'm already driving

slowly. "I'm going 40 miles an hour."

So, inside an hour we gained the coast,

beyond which, for as far as we could see,

the ocean, so late-afternoon pacific,

lay reflecting on the dazzling blue

of Heaven, proud as Pittsburgh glass to be

its mirror image, yet more deeply on

its true-blue God—a loving God—the sudden

_sight_ of Whom caused all its glassy calm

to leap up Waterford Cut Crystal high

in waves on waves on waves of joyous greeting.

Baba's eyes, reflecting all the joy

He felt, waved back, _Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!_

76. Sanskara Sparks

As close as Baba was to ocean, just as

close to Him in spirit and in space

was I, and drawing nearer, for which Baba

put His hand upon my head again,

and said, "Now promise to drive slowly." "Baba,"

I said, "I'm already driving slowly.

What are you talking about? I'm going 30,

35 at most." Then Baba looked

at me like I was stupid. Sure enough,

as Baba'd said, His nearness caused sanskaras

to fly out of me as fiery sparks.

At Meher Mount I was on pins to leave

my guests and fly on wings to Baba. Just then

Ivy Duce asked some small thing of me,

which, in my haste, I didn't satisfy.

She satisfied herself by making a

disparaging remark that made a deep

dent followed by a deeper yet impression,

covered over with a scar upon

my soul—all which, just as the sun was going

down a flaming ball, came flying out

in mass sanskara sparks, and I said, "Baba,

she has made me not _love_ everybody

—what am I to do about it?" Baba

looked at me with His bright, laughing eyes,

each one an ocean of compassion that,

between them, said it all. Yet Adi added,

"Agni, you love everybody; you

just don't _like_ everyone." Then Baba slapped

my shoulder hard and said, "I like your spirit

as it is. This trial by ocean proves

not all the seas can put out Agni's fire

that burns with such a Watchdog heat for keeping

Meher Mount for me, in God's name, that

it sears the souls, flames up and nips the heels

that tread all over it with age-old lust

(their footprints on the deed their single aim),

so _burning_ to keep it in Baba's name."

77. Put It in Agni's Name

"You, _rascal,_ Baba!" I cried. "You were reading

my mind all along. You knew that I

was thinking Meher Mount should now be in

your name." But Baba only smiled His picture-

perfect smile, which Adi framed in words,

"No, Agnes, it _can't_ be in Baba's name;

the war against Japan has seen to that.

He's classed an 'oriental alien,'

so can't own property in California."

My heart sank, yet Adi heard it fall,

reached out to it, caught up its cause, and said,

"Whose name, then, should it be in, Baba?" Baba

clapped His hands decisively, then, with

a final air, "Put it in Agni's name."

" _No, Baba!"_ I protested. "Uh-uh, I'm

all through with owning things beyond my love

for God, the poor—" [clap] "Put it in Agni's name,"

He gestured once again. " _No,_ Baba!" I

objected yet more strongly, "I've renounced all—"

"Shut up, Agnes," Adi's nudge upon

my shoulder firmly told me. "Baba's orders."

Baba then, a third and final time,

clapped ownership on me, and that was that.

The sun was down, as I, and shortly we

turned inland, at which all the ocean's waves

turned, waving their goodbyes (as I, too soon!).

I could not see _how_ _could_ _the Angels sing?_

so joyously for darkness gathering.

78. One Almighty Perfect Wave

The bus had gotten back to the hotel

before us, and we found the party gathered

in the lobby, chattering like birds;

yet how it rose in pitch and volume at

their great elation to see Baba once more:

peals of joy whose every decibel,

I well knew, tolled for me. God, how, then, could

the lobby be, for all of Baba's light,

so brightly lit—and yet I couldn't see

how there could be, the darkness all around,

such bright and clearly gay lightheartedness

—when he was _leaving_? And I couldn't hope

to plead so: " _Please_ stay!" What was my world to

the crying need of taking care of His?

The legions crying out for His love (I _one_ )

each one but a lone drop in His ocean;

just a tear to fall upon His shoulder

and be lost in Him; lost only to

be saved. All saved, the elevator doors

(so like the Sea) were parted wide, and Baba,

like the Israelites He'd saved, walked through.

He turned and crossed His index fingers

all His world knew meant "I am the Christ."

Then, bringing all His drops together, Baba

formed one great Almighty _perfect_ wave

(how could I call my own teardrop a wave?),

and smiled as widely as the parted Sea,

the walls of which, no longer held back, flowed

together once again—and He was gone,

the elevator whisking Him up to

His mansion high, as He, Humanity's

Great Elevator, with His awesome powers

to lift spirits, spirits us to ours.

79. Agnes Drives to San Francisco

You'd think that I was saying saddest of

goodbyes _for all time_ , not just overnight;

but somehow I could not conceive it sadder.

Baba, in His wisdom, saw that I

and Lenny could help one another to

get over each one's heartbreak loss of love.

We'd both decided, back at Meher Mount,

we'd drive directly up to San Francisco

after our goodbyes, so that we'd have

10 hours to drive 390 miles,

at _40_ miles an hour (dear God!), although

the truth is we'd soon both be going 50,

stopping for a coffee now and then.

We'd put a mattress in the back so we

could spell each other, catch a little sleep.

We'd get there in the wee hours of the morning,

check in to the Hotel Baba, catch

some few more hours of sleep before His flight

would get there at 11:00, time just right.

80. Agnes, It's the Cops

We started off, and Lenny started talking;

pretty soon he told me his whole story.

"Well, so what," I said, "there's more than one fish

in the sea; you'll find somebody else,"

and talk like that. Well we just chewed the fat

for hours (don't worry, Baba, just be happy.

This is one fat that won't make us sleep),

and stopped for coffee, and we had a great time.

By the time we got to San Francisco

Lenny said, "It's all right. I've released her."

That was Baba's way of helping him

get over his great sorrow, his lost love.

But now I've run too far ahead. I need

to go back. It was somewhere close to midnight.

I was driving, Lenny sleeping in

the back. The lights of this big rig were shining

in my mirror, so I slowed and drove

upon the shoulder, so he could get by.

Well, suddenly I heard this _whoop! whoop! whoop!_

and, startled, I thought, _What on earth is that?_

Then Lenny woke up. "Agnes, it's the cops.

You'd better stop." I stopped, and then an angry

policeman drove alongside. "If you hadn't

stopped," he said, "I would have rammed your car."

"How dare you?" I said. "You are a policeman.

And you were going to ram my car? How dare you?

I'll take this to court. I'm going to have you

fired. I wasn't speeding. Why'd you stop me?"

"I was sleeping in the car when you

drove by, and I was bored. I thought I'd chase you

for a little bit, and scare you." "You've got some nerve!

Are you writing me a ticket?" "Yes,"

I won't say what I chose, then, to express.

81. Baba Wards off a Catastrophe

We got to San Francisco, and we checked in,

had a good sleep. Then, as soon as Baba

got in, I got word He wanted to

see Lenny and me right away. We went in.

"Well, how are you?" Baba said. "How was

your trip?" And I said, "Baba, you played me

a trick in that small town. I wasn't speeding.

Yet you had that angry, rude policeman

stop me, and write me a ticket. Now

I'm going to have to pay a fine." He joked

about it for a bit, and then He got

a very solemn look upon His face.

He then took Lenny and me by the arm,

and gravely led us off to a far corner.

I've never seen Him look so serious.

And even I shut up. Then Baba said,

"You don't know just how hard I had to work

to ward off a catastrophe." He looked

so very solemn, I was really shaken.

He'd foreseen a tragedy, so He

had that policeman stop me. That is Baba's

beauty. See, instead of telling me,

"You stupid little idiot," He went

to all the trouble of preventing something

happening. See, that's what so impressed me

about Baba: total understanding

and compassion, and accepting you

just as you are. How many people can

do that? Accepting you just as you are,

and where you are, and have the patience to

wait for you to wake up a little bit.

And not for His, but for your benefit.

82. Around San Francisco

83. Alcatraz

Baba would be blessing San Francisco,

my hometown, till Tuesday— _four_ whole days.

I swelled with pride that He chose me above

the other Baba-lover residents

to show Him the attractions. After lunch,

Lud at the wheel awaiting my direction,

Baba, Adi, Nilu, Ivy Duce,

Diane (Lud's sweet young daughter), I, along

with all the others following by bus,

were hungering yet for the panoramic

view of San Francisco from Coit Tower

high on Telegraph Hill's lofty crown.

For some strange reason, out of all the sights

I might have pointed out first to best start

to sate that gnawing hunger, I was most

surprised to find myself directing Baba's

gaze toward "the most notorious

of prisons, Alcatraz, where the most hardened

criminals, thanks be to God, are well

imprisoned, maximum security,

and from which, due to being on an island,

and the waters cold and treacherous,

not even one who's Guinness-capable

can beat the record: inescapable."

Well, Baba took it in with His all-seeing

eyes, yet somehow didn't seem impressed.

" _You here_ _with me, so high,_ are the most hardened

prisoners of all. You're prisoners

of your agape love for me, and hardened

in resolve to love me more and more,

from which, because an island, blest and warm,

thanks be to God, affording maximum

security, out in the treacherous,

cold world, you prisoners of love all take

as good as gospel: there is no escape."

We stood, bound prisoners, our mouths agape.

84. Lombard Street

From tall Coit Tower's Telegraph Hill high,

but not the other high, we all came down,

and I directed Lud to take us all

to nearby Russian Hill, to Lombard Street,

atop which, as we poised a moment gazing

down on the steep, winding declination,

I said, "Baba, hold on, were about to

take our lives in our hands going down

'the crookedest street in the world,' and we

began the painful, slow, 5mph,

one-way, red-brick, winding, flower-strewn

descent, that, in the end, was but a block.

" _Jai Baba!_ " I sighed with profound relief

as we successfully negotiated

" _Phew!_ the eighth and final hairpin turn.

That last one, Baba, always gives me hives.

Thank God we came out of it with our lives!"

Well, Baba took it in with His all-seeing

eyes, and still somehow seemed unimpressed.

He said, "The Road to Heaven is a far

more tortuous and often torturous track

of a single block: an unbelief.

It, too, is one-way; more, is all the steeper.

Slow! _No one_ has ever once been known to

successfully negotiate it in

less than a lifetime. Those blest souls who do

all find it paved with gold and strewn with flowers

—Jacob's ladder, everlasting daisy,

Angelonia, love in a mist . . .

and they are in a perfect bliss to take

their lives in their own hands, and trade them for

the heaven-sent life they'll live evermore."

85. Fisherman's Wharf

We all were awestruck in our great resolve

to love Him more, and take the Road to Heaven.

In the meantime, I directed Lud

to take the road to Fisherman's Wharf. Oh!

but when we got there we found precious little

in the way of fish, for all was tourist

shops, attractions, cruises for to hook

the tourist dollars. Verily it was

a fishless desert, and we that amounted

to a multitude were hungry. Baba

wasn't fazed. He cast His eyes, a net,

and spake thus, "In my Avataric form

of Jesus Christ I fed a multitude

of full 5,000, though their stomachs were

as empty as are yours, with but two fish."

"But can you do the same as Meher Baba?"

Ivy Duce asked with a rumbling stomach.

"Yes, if I may borrow your last name."

And Ivy said, "Oh, Baba, you know that

I can't deny you anything you ask."

So Baba led us all a merry chase,

along the waterfront. And though He'd never

been there in His life, or in His lives,

for that great matter, He eventually

arrived us at the House of Seafood where

He bade us all to sit in the al fresco

dining area upon the wharf.

A smiling waitress soon attended us

with, "May I take your orders?" Baba gently

took her pen and pad out of her hands,

and wrote a single word, and gave them back.

She looked and seemed to understand, and in

a ravenous long time she brought out two

large baked fish, with the trimmings. Baba broke them

with His hands, and fed the multitude

of us, and we were satisfied. And then

Lud's daughter Diane, looking quite perplexed,

said, "Baba, what was the word that you wrote,

she understood as, 'bring us two baked fish'?"

And Baba took her hand and with His finger

traced four letters, she pronounced aloud:

"D–U–C–E." This was met with silence

for a moment, and then Ivy Duce

laughed her great horse laugh, _"Deuce!_ or _two_ in French."

And we all roared at Baba's clever joke,

and left there doubly full: of fish, and, _too_ ,

our greater love of Him, so full and true.

86. The Painted Ladies

By this time it was waxing evening, and

I sang out, "Lud, unless I miss my guess,

you and the other men still have that most

insatiable of appetites for seeing

all the Alamo Square 'Painted Ladies,'

'Seven Sisters' all—and now is just

the time to see them, they all facing west

to get the evening sun full in the face,

its rose blush making them the more becoming."

To his credit, Lud did not waste time,

And soon we all, we women too, were gazing

most admiringly upon the seven

(six identical) Victorian houses,

faces painted so becomingly.

And I was proud to see for all my punning

guile that, as each one took off her cloak

for Him, that Baba got my little joke.

He, smiling, said, "When I walked on the earth

as Jesus Christ, and on the water, too,

at Galilee, one of my close disciples,

Mary Magdalene, was a repentant

painted lady, as you say. She travelled

with me and supported me from out of

her resources, once anointing my feet

with a pint of nard, a most expensive

perfume, which she wiped off with her hair.

She took it on her grieved eyes to accept

the witness of my crucifixion and

my burial, and then my resurrection.

Called 'apostle to the twelve apostles,'

often smeared for all her former paint,

the masses now revere her as a saint."

87. Completely Mad with Love

For all my trying to impress Him, Baba

always triumphed in impressing us

the more. I vowed that I'd impress Him yet.

On Monday I would get one final chance,

and I resolved that in my mad pursuit

of loving Him I'd find Him so impressed.

But Baba, "loveable rascal" that He was,

as Alexander Markey aptly called Him,

was too many for me, and He slyly

read my mind, and said, "When you go _really_

mad for me, then you will find me. Only

those who go completely mad with love

for me shall find me!" leaving not a doubt

that He, in loving me, had found me out.

88. Professor Chatterjee Receives a Shock

We'd had a full day every way, and we

returned to Hotel Baba, happy-tired.

Next morning early, Saturday, by sheer

coincidence Professor Chatterjee

called to invite me out to lunch. Well I'd

for years been trying to get 'Chat' to meet

with Baba, and he always said to this

effect, "You Westerners are all so stupid.

You run after these high-minded mystics,

ignorant of what the consequences

will be. Till you're set to have your life

turned inside out—stay well away from them."

Well this time I was furious, and said,

"If you don't come now to meet Meher Baba,

_I will never speak to you again!_ "

Reluctantly he came, but it was lunchtime.

I appealed to Adi to let Chat

go in. So Adi went inside. Then Baba

came out. Taking Chat's hand in between

his own, He led him back into His room.

Some half an hour later Chat, who always

carried himself very upright, almost

military in his bearing, came out

all hunched over, Quasimodo-like.

I led him, half unconscious, to my room

where he kept muttering, "I had to come,

I had to come." He left some two hours later.

Not long after, I got word that he'd

been paralyzed completely on his left side,

and then shortly after died, as did

a part of me. I grieved for my dear friend

who had instilled Far East philosophy

so five-years deep in me those many long-lost

years ago. The doctors could assign

no cause for the paralysis. The talk

of one was that he'd "suffered a great shock."

89. Don Stevens is Shocked Utterly

On Sunday morning Baba visited

the homes of Ivy Duce, Don Stevens, and

Fred Frey. Don later told us he'd selected

his home with large Baba gatherings

in mind, because it had a lovely, spacious,

living room, in short, a perfect venue.

[Baba long ago had told Don not to

try to put ideas in His mind].

And Don was proud to show it off to Baba.

Looking at it from the outside, Baba

utterly shocked Don, which paralyzed him

for some moments, when He wiped His hands

together in the air, as if in getting

something off them, and told Don to sell

the house as soon as possible. He never

saw the spacious living room that Don

was peacock proud of, and in which large groups

of Baba-lovers might have met and dined,

but for the image Don put in his mind.

90. Baba Discusses the Trip to India

The afternoon was set aside for Baba

to discuss the trip to India.

When we'd excitedly crammed in His room,

He hushed us up by starting, "I will need

at least 3 months to make all the arrangements.

All the Indian groups from every part

of India will be there. It will take

a lot of time. Don, say this all so loudly

that the fishes in the sea will hear you.

Start off this way, 'Baba cannot hear me.

It must be the fog.' " Don did his bidding.

In a loud voice, he yelled, **"** _BABA_ **. . ."** after

which what he said was drowned out by laughter.

In the room as well there was an air

beneath the air of great excitement, which,

though long suppressed, was now suppressed so thinly

as to be transparent. He Beloved,

at long last, had called them, they, the chosen

— _yes!_ —to India. And Baba said,

"Last night I thought it all out in my Godhead.

You don't know how hard it is to have

the weight of the whole universe upon

your shoulders, and on top of that the weight

of having to work every detail out.

The meeting, I've decided, will convene

November 7th, and last for a month.

I want for every one whom I've invited

to attend, as there won't be another

in your lifetime. You would have to live

10 more such lifetimes—700 years—

for me to rack my Godhead for another,

with no guarantee you'd be invited.

Only those who can stay for a month

can come. I know that most of you are of

the poor who always shall be with us, as

I used to say when I was Jesus Christ.

I, too, am of the poor. Although I'm Lord

of Everything, and I mean _Everything_ ,

my holey pockets don't hold money any

longer than a sieve that's made of six-inch

concrete mesh, with holes in it, holds water.

Your airfare to India alone,

as well as the expense for room and board,

will be, for many of you, a great hardship.

Yet, because this meeting will have such

great spiritual significance that it

will change the world, I want you to attend.

When I was Christ I spake as Christ and said,

'Sell everything you own and follow me.'

But now that I am Baba I have put

away (would it were money) Christly things,

and say to you, 'Sell everything and give it

all to me, the poorest of the poor.'

Now, Don, repeat what I said with such volume

everyone on Mercury will hear it.

Start off this way, 'Baba cannot hear me.

It must be the air thick with excitement.' "

Don did just as Baba bid him, proudly,

we all laughing lovingly and loudly.

91. The Golden Gate

Monday would be Baba's last full day,

and my last chance at trying to impress Him.

I suggested it was only fitting

that the Ancient One should sit beneath

the ancient tree in Muir woods. To my great

excitement He consented! In high spirits,

I drove Baba, Adi, Nilu, Kitty,

Jeanne, and Darwin onto the approach to

the world's most famous bridge, the Golden Gate.

As we began to drive across, I swelled

to point out, "Baba, though the Golden Gate

was once thought to have been impossible

to span, some really clever engineers

well bridged the 1.7-mile span

in 4 years, 3 months, at the mammoth cost

of $37,000,000, and

11 lives. Its span of .8 miles

is still a world record. Just _look_ , Baba!

Is it not the highest of all highs

in all the world to drive across it now

_220_ feet above the water

at high tide, look up and see its towers

towering 526 feet

over us so high up in the sky,

demanding such a steep price from a faller.

Toll: a paltry quarter of a dollar?"

To my great deflation Baba didn't

seem the least impressed, not looking up

or down or to his side, as if upon

a street He drove each day. "Consider that

my Golden Gate," He answered, "was designed

and built by much the greatest engineer

in less time than He takes to build a case

against one who does not have faith in Him

or love Him; more, it towers so high over

all your heads that you can't see it with

the naked eye; that you will only see it

with the naked 'I,' _if_ you don't make

a wrong turn, get upon the wrong road and

pass through those fiery gates. And as for crossing,

it will ever be impossible

to cross this _dear dear!_ one-way span without

you pay the ultimate in crossing tolls:

your lives. No need to pay now; you can wait

to pay Him when you cross the Golden Gate"

92. Muir Woods: Another Baba Tree

Okay, so He was not impressed; but Baba

wasn't out of the I'm-not-impressed Woods

yet. Across the bridge we entered Golden

Gate's famed Recreation Area.

Some 10 miles later I said, "Baba, we're

now entering Mount Tam-al-PIOUS State Park,"

giving "Tamalpais" its correct

pronunciation I was certain would be

much the sweetest music to His ears.

And soon we reached our destination. "Baba,"

I sang, "we're now entering Muir Woods,

and one of the few last remaining stands

of old-growth coastal redwoods." When the others

had arrived, and we were all on foot,

one large united group of Baba-lovers,

I went on, "The redwoods are the oldest,

largest, tallest living things on earth.

Most all the coastal redwoods in the park

are some 500–800 years

of age; the oldest is at least 1,200.

Coastal redwood's taxonomic name,

it's Latin, is _Sequoia sempervirens._

_Sempervirens_ translates 'evergreen'

or 'everlasting.' Its skyscraping height

can reach to some 380 feet,

its massive trunk at breast height 30 feet

across, enough to hold dance parties on.

Their fire-resistant bark is 1-ft thick.

They're regularly shrouded in moist coastal

fog, from which their upper leaves absorb

life-giving moisture, since the trees cannot

pump water to such great height for the weight

of gravity. So what that mighty oaks

from tiny acorns grow, when redwoods towering

over them grow from a seed no bigger

than a minuscule tomato seed.

Despite their truly mammoth height and weight,

they don't send down deep roots, but rather

laterally, covering an acre.

Their lumber's highly valued for its beauty,

light weight, fire and decay resistance,

hence its long and _beautiful_ existence."

Incredibly, though, somehow Baba seemed

untouched, _unmoved_ , as if He wasn't looking

at a thing out of the ordinary,

even come to "Old Methuselah,"

the oldest tree in Muir Woods, reputed

to be some 231

years older than its famed Old Testament–old

namesake, who died at the well-beyond-ripe

old age of 969.

Yet Baba looked up at it as if He

was looking at a common housefly passing

overhead, and then He sat down in

the cavernous great hollow in the trunk of

Old Methuselah, which could have fit

his children, and his children's children unto

generations, and then closed His eyes.

And we were mesmerized. It was as if

the living Buddha'd come to life before

our eyes beneath the sacred Bodhi Tree.

And then He spoke, "The Tree of Life, I am

the Highest of the High, and older than

the oldest of all other living things

that call me _Deus pater omnipotens_

(God Almighty Father), I who am

more everlasting than eternity.

I grew from something smaller than a seed:

your need for me to give your brief lives meaning,

tower over all. And you cannot

conceive of my great weight. But rather than

talk of how many souls could dance upon

My great broad trunk, I'd rather talk about

how many angels I can fit upon

the head of a small pin. My roots go deep down

to the very soul of you, as well as

all across the world, and hold me fast.

Who know me know I'm constantly enshrouded

in the mist of mystery from which

I draw the life-sustaining faith and love,

without which I could not survive. Above all,

I am valued for my beauty, my

great weight, and my resistance to decay.

My skin's so thick that I am totally

impervious to fire, making no

impression on me, all except for that

soul-searing fire that Samson couldn't drag me

from, that fire there's there's no resisting: 'Agni.' "

"Oh, you _rascal_ , Baba!" I sang, blushing

redder than His own fire of creation,

He now looking at me, bright eyes laughing.

" _You knew_ I was trying to impress you

all along, and you were playing me for

the fool I was to try impressing God,

when all this time it's _I_ who have been awed

Then Baba stood, and as if all His talk

of drawing life-sustaining faith and love

from out the mystery enshrouding Him

had made Him conscious of that other hunger,

He asked Kitty what hour had been chiseled

in stone like the Ten Commandments for

our lunch, and told that we were running late,

and Moses fixed to chisel his gray hair out,

Baba signaled for us to return.

And as we walked beneath the coastal redwoods

towering so high above all living

things on earth, we each felt so profoundly

blest that He who walked with us so softly

spiritually soared so high above us,

yet was down to earth enough to love us.

93. Flight of Tears—Baba Flies to Australia

August 7, 1956.

The morning came that no one wished to come,

and that no one could hold back. Baba called

His close ones into His once joyous room,

that now was one of mourning. With His loving

smile He stressed that no one must embrace Him,

or place flower garlands round His neck,

but rather to embrace Him in their hearts,

and wreathe Him with the flowers of their love,

as He held all of them within His heart,

and wrapped His loving Spirit all around them.

As I drove Him to the airport with

His close ones, Eruch, Adi, Meherjee,

and Nilu, all the other Baba-lovers

sadly following by bus, I saw

so clearly His all-seeing wisdom in

enjoining us from placing flowers round

His neck: their presence, by association,

would connote a funeral procession,

we all grieving for our dispossession.

At the airport, as He had commanded,

He prohibited us from embracing

Him. One woman wept aloud, and begged for

an embrace, which only won from Him

a frown. And yet His limitless compassion

shone through with a loving pat upon

the cheek to someone here or there, or on

the chin, as if to say "Chin up. Be brave."

Now He was only broken hearts from leaving.

Everybody was in tears. But I

was stubborn proud. I hadn't cried, and wasn't

going to cry. Then Baba reached out with

His so-expressive hand, and tenderly

touched me upon the shoulder, and the _pride_

_that goeth_ , as the Book of Proverbs says,

_before the fall_ , went, pride I couldn't keep,

and opened up the fountains of the deep.

As Baba strode, a spiritual colossus,

down the ramp, a sea of hands reached out

to Him in warm, heartbreaking, last "Farewell!"

He clasping tightly those blest ones in His.

For all His admonitions He could not

keep one young blushing girl from running down

the passageway in front of Him in time

to slip a garland of white orchids round

His neck; nor could they keep Him from embracing

her, and placing it around her neck.

And then began the ever-growing distance

in between us as He strode across

the tarmac, and then up the stairs and into

Pan American Flight 841.

It might have been our sad last sight of Him;

but then how blest we felt to see, however

bittersweet, His smiling face _there!_ in

the second window, His divine hand slowly

_waving at me_ each of us believed in

our swelling hearts. The door closed and the stairs

were pulled back, and the plane was slowly towed

to where it then began to taxi to

the runway, turn, then with the roar of all

four engines, rapidly accelerate, and _lift off_.

Once more He was in His Heaven, and

in few more hours than it now would take me

to drive home to Meher Mount, His other

heaven, He'd be in Australia,

halfway around the world. The lift beneath

my wings came then: He'd given me His Word:

"I shall come back" (oh, yes—to _life_ —my own!).

I drove back home, His home, my heart succumbing,

to await His promised second coming.

94. Baba's Work

Agnes with Kali _, November 2, 1956_

He came to me that night in living dream,

more beautiful, it seemed to me, than life:

I saw, beheld Him in the most resplendent

light—and I saw Baba's work, my _life_ —before me.

I awoke with all the fire of sunrise,

burning with the passion of the full

array of God's work I would do that day.

I sat down at my vintage Crown and, Kali

at my feet, let the inflaming thoughts

that burned within me, burn their way out through

my fingers: "Baba, you are universal;

everybody's yours, so Meher Mount

does not need to be just for Baba-lovers.

You said no one knows a thing about love

anyway, so I'm not going to limit

Meher Mount to solely Baba-lovers.

Anybody who's in trouble, poor,

abused, or sick, especially Mexicans

and Indians, will be my work, my love.

So, Baba, if my life-plan doesn't fit

your Master Plan, I'll pack up Kali and

the cats, and you can get somebody else."
(It doesn't seem as if I'd had the courage.)

He'd be in Australia, the one-time

island prison, with His prisoners,

all in for life, and so my captive fingers

flew to send my love and get it in

the mailbox, red flag up, and get to Him

about when He'd reach Meherazad, his home

sweet home in His beloved India,

not daring to think, if His word was "No,"

to whom I'd turn—or where on earth I'd go.

Four agonies that somehow passed for weeks

(another of my miracles) dragged by.

Then fear: that word came: "Dear Beloved Watchdog,

Meher Mount is in your loving hands.

Whatever you say is all right with me."

"Oh, Kali!" I cried, bringing from on high

the blessed word of God on down to her.

" _Look!_ Baba says . . ." I didn't have to tell her

more; she looked and read it—in my eyes—

and in whose own was purest, sweetest love.

How blest was I to be, so all agog,

beloved in the eyes of God and dog.

And I so loved them, and doing Baba's work.

The poor ones came. And those who couldn't come

I went to, Mercy's Angel, when I could.

Yet, all alike, I gave myself to them.

And when that other calling came, I rose

to it and substitute-taught, as I did

with all God's learning children, all the grades.

I worked with high school kids, got clubs going for them,

always striving to instill in them

consideration for and loving others,

and to use the minds God gave them rather

than just doing what their peers do. And,

like all the others, anybody who

came up was given Baba's work to do.

" _Outside man"_ Agnes (left) and Margaret Craske _doing Baba's work, circa 1950s_

95. Indian Blood: Baba's Car Accident, Udtara, India

As much as August tried, it couldn't burn

with my intensity of heat, and yielded

to September, which soon yielded to

the fall, which yields the finest, clearest days,

and did all through October and November, as

December started to, but as its first

resplendent day was nearing sunset, grey-black

clouds of déjà vu began to storm in

from the East and darken all the sky.

A darker night; and then the 2nd dawned

to leaden gloom, commencing gloomier

as one more bodeful cumulous oppression

darkly rose up from the Upper Valley,

ominously lowered overhead,

extinguishing what little somber light

was holding on, then opened up on me,

dispatching all its reign of darkness down

upon me in one fearsome clap of thunder:

baba gravely injured dr nilu

killed in auto accident udtara

_STOP!_ My heart did . . . till it realized

I desperately needed it to fly

to Him. A later dispatch flew the story:

Baba, Eruch, Dr. Nilu, Vishnu,

Pendu were then heading to Satara,

Eruch driving. Just outside Udtara

Eruch suddenly, mysteriously

lost control, as if some unseen hand,

in one swift, willful power grab, had wrenched

the steering wheel from his. The car veered wildly,

crashing head-on into a stone culvert.

Nilu, Pendu, Vishnu all were thrown out.

Baba was awash in blood from cuts

upon his face and tongue and legs, his pelvis

fractured. Eruch's ribs were broken. Vishnu

had a badly mangled leg, a broken

rib and face cuts. Dr. Nilu, bleeding

badly, was unconscious, as was Pendu,

both legs broken, deep cuts to his head.

But Baba said it had to be; it was

as He had willed: He had to shed His blood

upon His native India for all

mankind. When told He'd probably not walk

again, tears flowed down Baba's cheeks. "These tears,"

He said, "aren't for the suffering of my body;

they are for—" a solemn doctor entered:

Nilu, Baba's dear, close mandali,

had died without regaining consciousness.

Months later, having heard all witnesses,

in seeking to fix blame the court was awed:

The accident was ruled "an act of God."

96. A Walk with God

For all that Baba suffered Himself to

be God, to walk, the long weeks following

the accident were weeks of most ungodly

suffering: for Nilu's death, and for

the suffering of Eruch, Vishnu, Pendu.

But Baba _walked,_ if haltingly. A world

away I sought to walk those saintly paths

as righteously, and so walk with my God.

I walked them down the nights and down the days;

I walked them down the seasons of the year.

I righteously walked on into the next.

I'd heard the stirring music and I couldn't

keep my feet from marching in the one-saint

Great Salvation Army; I became

a soldier in the War on Poverty;

saw action on the grim front lines of housing.

I'd been in the leper colony

in Baghdad, and they lived in better housing

than the dirt-poor Mexican farm workers.

My heart singing _Onward Housing Soldiers,_

onwardly I marched, and with such saintly

missionary zeal, I marched myself

to April's last days, 1958

—and _pure elation!_ "Dear Beloved Watchdog,

When you shall have marched with Time unto

the _30_ th _of May_ I shall set foot,

once more, on Meher Mount, and eyes on you

I love more dearly yet with all my heart;

a month's march only keeping us apart."

97. Baba's Last Trip to the West

A _month._ How could I ever wait that long!

He'd be in Myrtle Beach May 17

("This trip will be my last trip to the West")

—and I could fly to Him as I had six

flown years before. No chance: a soldier in

the heat of battle, I knew my commanding

officer (I knew myself) would never

give me leave—not that I would have asked

when I'd asked so much of myself already.

I'd keep busy fighting, and the days

would fly _them down the labyrinthine ways_.

Those 4 weeks passed so slowly they'd have passed

for 4 years, so unlike the cloud express

that then flew darkly in from Myrtle Beach,

in Adi's neatly scripted hand: "Dear Agnes,

Baba has so worn Himself out seeing,

blessing everyone this last time, He

can't walk and is in crippling pain. The past

few days we've had to carry Him about

(He wouldn't rest). But finally this evening

He collapsed, His mortal flesh not equal

to His boundless Loving Spirit. Never

have I seen Him look so sorrowful

as, knowing He could not go on, He bade

me say with what profound regret and tears

He shall _miss seeing you and setting foot_

_on Meher Mount_ once more. He'll rest

tomorrow. Monday we'll begin the long flight

home to His beloved India

where he can get the most attentive, best

of mortal flesh and Loving Spirit rest. . . ."

" _Oh, Baba, you would have that rest—and more—_

_on Meher Mount!"_ I wanted to cry out

as I so wept inside. I wanted all

the more to _fly_ my best attentiveness

to Him—and see He got that rest. And how

I wept outside to know it couldn't be.

That day was bluest Monday. He was in

His Heaven right then, flying every moment

further to the East _away_ from me;

_He'd said He would return._ And I'd no doubt:

He'd written it in blood upon my heart.

But then He'd written on it (how it bled!),

"This trip will be my last trip to the West."

Oh, God, which Word of was I to believe?

The one to make it sing? the one to grieve?

98. John Cooke: The Greater His Release

I knew the Words I'd faith in in my heart.

He said He would return—and Baba _would_

(MacArthur did). His last trip to the West?

Of course! I saw it plain: He'd get to me

the long way—yes! by flying to the _east._

My heart no longer bled, but swelled with joyous

expectation. And since there was so much

more of it to give, I gave myself

the more to Baba's work. The difference was

that, since, like Jesus, He had set no blest day

for His second coming I could fix on,

I no longer suffered His return,

but rather, with each beautiful new dawning,

looked on every day as _the_ most blessed

day it was, and that, with every one,

I'd have that much more fruit of Baba's labor

to put in His mouth (for sweet prasad),

whence grows the sweetest fruit: kept Word of God.

The days flowed into weeks, weeks into months,

a stream, and so a year flowed by . . . then two . . .

then three, which tributaries, in their flowing

into the Great River Flowing On,

all, in their course, flowed into (and so paid

their flowing tributes to) the Sea of Time.

Did I say "flowed"? No, wrong past tense—they _flew,_

as from, sweet time to time, flew west to me

dear precious words from Baba, though not _the_

most precious ones I so, _so_ longed to hear:

"I'm coming to the West. I shall set foot . . ."

But then word came on darkest wings ( _fly back!_ )

I didn't want to hear, of John—poor John!

When he left Meher Mount he went up north

and, all hope gone, got all the deeper into

drugs. Together with his money and

his open house, three magnets, he drew kids

like rotting fruit draws flies, corrupting them,

as had that Darkest Continent's witch doctors

so corrupted him. The Law was set

to grab him by his collar, so he fled

to Mexico where, word flew back (God, _no!_

you stupid wings—fly _back,_ fly _back!_ ) he died

in exile, squalor, wasted and alone.

Oh, John! poor innocent! The moment they

fixed eyes on you you didn't stand a chance:

the power of their witchery was too much

for your body and your gentle mind.

But no least spot of their black magic ever

rubbed off on your beautiful white soul.

They had no black art power to do that.

And for which whiteness God in all His mercy

has released you from the prison they

made of your body/mind, those forces dark,

that you might be forever-living proof,

the _beauty_ of His cosmic compensation

(for which grace, all power be to Him!):

The more in life his sufferings increase,

The greater shall, in death, be his release.

99. I Love Saints, But Sinners I Adore

As it was mine: for sadness John was gone,

for joy that he was free, my tears won their

release from their own confines when emotion

opened up (that was the _key_ ) their locks.

I never thought about it at the time.

It's only later on I saw, in tearful

hindsight, this release was Baba's way

of pushing me along upon His string

to my next test; His way of seeing how much

or how little generosity

of spirit, kindness I had in my heart

for others who had also won release

from their own prisons. One of my jobs as

a soldier-saint was getting jobs for hard-core

unemployable, the so-called dregs

of our so-called "society": ex-convicts

("Ma'am, you've got to get a job for me

in two weeks—or I'll go back to the clink!").

I had to use a little bullying,

but, twisting arms and consciences, I got

them jobs. And it was beautiful the way

they swung around from being violent,

so grateful someone cared the least for them.

I understood then Baba's often saying,

"I love saints, but sinners I adore."

One came to see me once all teary-eyed,

his hat in hand, "Ma'am, you're the only one

who's ever treated me like," and he sobbed,

"a human being." It just breaks your heart

to see a strapping, tough man weeping like that.

Set to weep myself, I stifled it with,

"Well, you _are_ a human being, aren't you?

Who are they to look down on you? You're

as good as them. So, come on, stand up, put

your shoulders back and spit right in their eye."

He stood tall, put his shoulders back, and strode out;

he was going to be a big, proud man.

And he was so pathetic, _beautiful._

Yet everybody wants to treat him like

a criminal? Society has no

compassion. What, _society_? A prison:

in for life, each prisoner must cease

to be to ever hope to win release.

100. The Trail That Leads to Reawakening

While each was just as peacock proud to have

an honest-to-God job out on the street,

I saw that, like the Choctaw, Chickasaw,

Creek, Seminole, and Cherokee, each proud

Parolee (pressed to make an honest buck)

was suffering his own sad Trail of Tears

as bitter for the forced march that the "long knives"

drove them on for all their reservations.

Then it came to me: I saw that it

was Baba pushing me along that trail,

upon those tears. And push me on He did,

through last of the "beat" generation '50s,

on into the counterculture '60s,

through its war-torn ferment—all so He

could lead me to the hard-pressed, lovely Chumash.

One small band had, with permission, squatted

in a park in Simi Valley, but

the landed gentry raised a stink (they only

had to be themselves); they wanted them

kicked out. Imagine! Here we came and took

their land away from them, then wouldn't let

them squat on one small stinking piece of it

("Look, aren't we treating all of them like dirt?").

I don't know what possessed me—yes, I do, too:

_outrage_ , native born, flared up in me

and stoked my inborn fire to such a high

degree that I flew down there in a boil

that any cauldron would have bubbled over

in its swelled pride to have come to. All

it took was one quick tearfully appraising

look to find their medicine man/chief

the loveliest of men. "Look, you can come

and live and practice your beliefs, in peace,

on Meher Mount," I said in looking in

his soft brown eyes, "it's very spiritual."

I don't know what got in me—yes, I do, too:

I could not help feeling in my heart

that Baba somehow wanted Meher Mount

connected with the New World "Indians"

(Columbus thinking he had reached the Indies),

reawakening them to their old

traditions. I but felt it all the deeper

when I learned, through one, that they believed

that when a mighty spiritual teacher

from the East comes to the West, that this

will be the signal they've been waiting for

to reawaken. And they're _beautiful,_

their teachings, very close to teachings in

the East. Yet cruel putdowns of their cultures

taught them in their wisdom to repress them,

tearfully, in deference to our own.

He thanked me on behalf of them. And yet

they never came. [I learned, years later, that

the trail that they were on had led them to

another private land where they could practice

their beliefs and wait, as they had done

for many many moons so patiently,

the long-awaited sign: _It's time—awake!_ ].

And I could only think that Baba'd hid

Himself away from them for all this time

in wanting them to wait a bit more yet

to reawaken [sound of chanting, drumming]

at sign of His long-awaited coming.

101. Pushing Me Along Upon His String: the '60s

And in my thousandfold-less-patient waiting,

Baba, in His loving, pushed me onward,

never slackening His string a moment,

never giving me a chance to make

a run for it and snag myself around

some fast, unyielding rock of ages so,

in pushing me with all His loving might

and main, He'd break His cosmic string—and free!

I'd fly Him down the streams of all my tears;

I'd fly Him down the Deeps of Loneliness.

Instead, each passing day, He stiffened it

to be of higher and yet higher test

(though I was but the smallest fish, St. Minnow)

so, in pushing me, it might be more

impossible than loving Him to break,

for my, but all the more for Heaven's, sake.

So Baba pushed me onward into the

full ferment of the social revolution:

tuning in and turning on and dropping

out; and tripping out; and tripping headlong

into all the fury ( _peace and love!_ )

of all its cultural, political

upheaval; all its swirling, status quo-

disturbing radicals, subversives (hippies,

longhairs, peaceniks, women's libbers) free love;

psychedelic drugs and music; be-ins;

sit-ins; draft resisters; demonstrators;

conscientious ( _killing's wrong!_ ) objectors;

war protestors; _everything_ dissenters;

challenging all government, authority,

rule; civil disobeying; rioting;

_demanding_ civil, equal rights for women,

homosexuals, minorities;

and pushing back, and pushing for reform,

and always, _always_ pushing anarchy,

as Baba ever more was pushing me

on through the years to witness (He Jehovah),

birth of a small pill preventing birth;

a Bay of Pigs that proved the Pay of Bigs;

a Cold War getting hotter by the day;

a Cuban Farming Crisis (silos filled with

_missiles_ —and no smallest grain of truth);

a nuclear race where "all" the winners would

be all the losers who came in dead last;

a wall put up so high that East is East

and West is what nobody can get over;

hear _King_ dream his people would be free;

hear "Mr. President, you can't say Dallas

doesn't love you," then three shots ring out,

the death ensuing, caught on horror film;

bear witness to an Act of Civil Rights;

hear three more shots ring out, a world in mourning

singing, _"Have you seen my old friend Bobby?_

Can you tell me where he's gone? I thought

I saw him walking up over the hill

with Malcolm, Martin (no, God, no!) and John.

You know, I just looked round and they were gone."

Black Panthers roaming through the urban jungles;

chaos in Chicago, yippies yapping

(rebel dogs); and _every day_ the bags of

our finest, bravest, youngest blood and treasure

coming home from Vietnam in pieces

(never in one peace); still Baba pushed me

onward, as if He was seeing how far

He could push me into seeing and

accepting what I could not comprehend:

the world I knew was coming to an end.

102. A Drop to Fill an Ocean

As was the '60s! _1968_

had come and— _can you tell me where they've gone?_

I'd so completely lost myself in doing

Baba's work (He always found me more),

I lost track of the years. My losing one

was not so bad, but, I don't know, it seemed

like carelessness to lose so many years

like that, and not know where. Still I was

lost in happiness in getting lost,

and getting up excitedly each morning,

hoping, praying this would be the day

the hand of God would come on wings proclaiming

(Lord!) the _blessed_ day of His return.

But His each word that came out of the blue

each blue moon only spoke, beyond His boundless

love for me, of how His mortal body's

pain and suffering for all mankind,

was unrelenting, crucifying; He

was on the cross each moment (how I wept!).

The willing Spirit must await, and yearn,

weak flesh (another day) for His return.

The '60s sped on: 1969.

That "9" again! that number holding such

significance throughout the Bible as

the number of finality—the _last_

of all, and, prophesying thus the _end_.

Clouds more foreshadowing than I had ever

seen began to storm in from the East,

and pile up menacingly overhead,

and send to earth at frightening intervals

tremendous bolts of lightning, as if Neptune

hurling down his fearsome trident, causing

me to brace myself for eardrum-bursting

thunder claps, which weirdly never came.

It stormed the whole of that day, and the next,

the next day yet, and with each one, the darker

grew the clouds, the brighter flashed the lightning,

till I thought no Heaven's wonder could

eclipse itself. It did, for two more, just

to prove me wrong. The 6th day was the end

of January. _6._ Yes, surely it

was auguring the storm's end _finally_

(God rested on the 7th day). Which day

began as midnight dark as if the sun

was moon eclipsed, then flashed more brightly than

the brightest star in burning out. And in

that flash I saw a cloud so all-eclipsing

**dark** I _knew_ it had to be the end.

No sound at all. It was as if all Heaven

had forsworn an oath of utter silence,

and so bound the earth. I had the awful

sense that something in the air was mounting.

Tensing, nothing could have braced me for

the blinding flash, the eardrum-bursting, my-heart-

shattering, God Almighty awful clap of

thunder:

meher baba dropped the body

silently at 12:15 pm

_STOP!_ friday january 31

so might once more his measureless devotion

be the loving drop that fills the ocean

103. I Am Being Crucified Each Moment

" _STOP!_ oh _STOP!_ oh God, oh Baba, _STOP!_

Come back! You said you would come back!" I wept

in loving drops I prayed would fill the Ocean;

and, when more clouds followed, opened up,

and poured on me how crucifiedly

He suffered in His final days, in silence,

for all humankind, I _felt_ they must:

from early morning on the 26th,

horrendous spasms racked His body each

few minutes, totally exhausting Him.

So violent were these spasmodic jolts

that Eruch, Pendu, Francis, Bhau, and Padri

had to hold His rock-hard body down

upon the shifting bed as Baba gestured,

"Each jolt feels like an electric shock."

Each movement of His fingers brought upon

a new spasmodic jolt precipitating

yet more agonizing spasms. "This

[He made the Cross sign] is my crucifixion.

Christ was crucified once. I am being

crucified each moment." All knew they

were witnessing a sacrifice: His body

on the altar of Divine Love. Then,

at once, a spasm yet more terrible

jerked Baba upright, causing Him to choke.

His every muscle went as rigid as

the Cross, He tightly closed His mouth (to keep

His suffering for all of humankind

from crying out despite His will of God),

then, suddenly, all respiration ceased.

As rock hard as it was one moment gone,

His body (weep, man, _weep_ to see Love's power)

turned as soft and tender as a flower.

I ached with all my heart to fly to Him,

let fall my tears with all His mandali's

and all the world's, to see Him one last time,

take final darshan, sobbing, and to see Him

— _Avatar Meher Baba ki jai!_ —laid

within His tomb, and touch the earth so blest

to cover Him, the ever beaming face

of purest love, to nevermore be seen

upon this earth. And as He Infinite,

Almighty is my witness— _God_ —I would have,

even if He were not half a bleeding,

torn-apart world, but a hundred whole

heartbroken worlds away from my own heart.

But Reason held me, sat me down, and made me

see what I could not see in my grief:

He wasn't there within that lifeless form;

the Avatar had dropped the body and

returned to be the Ocean. And I cried

for joy that He no longer had to shed

His blood for all, be crucified each moment.

He had won release. Yet too heartsore,

I cried that I would never see Him more.

104. Beloved Watchdog

He heard my cries, and came to me that night

in dream, as I had never seen Him, larger,

sweeter than in life—He filled my mind;

and as I'd never heard: He _spoke_ to me!

not with His eyes or hands—but with His _voice_!

as He had said He would: ". . . and when I break

my silence all the world will come to know."

How resonant, how rich, how _sweet_ beyond

all loving words: "Beloved Watchdog Agni,

do not worry. I am here with you

at Meher Mount in spirit, in your every

loving act of doing Baba's work.

And only I know how much trouble you

have gone to keeping Meher Mount for me,

and how I keep you ever in my heart.

Don't worry. Know I shall return. Be happy."

How I was in dream, and all the more

in waking, knowing Baba, loving me

so utterly divinely was still pushing

me along upon His string, just like

a little fish, so happy with the notion

"Only think— _alive_ in His Great Ocean!"

Ever faithful watchdog, I kept watch

each waking moment, and each moment I

was only half asleep, both keen ears cocked

for sneaking hypocrite, and at the slightest

sound, I nipped the heels and drove the loud–

ki-yiing, speaks-with-false-tongue down the hill.

And I would keep it up for just as long

as ever it should take while waiting for

my Master to return, at which time He

shall see how watchful I am, and be sold

to know I'm worth my watchdog wait in gold.

105. Man on the Moon

I lost myself in doing Baba's work;

and, as He wished me to be, I was happy.

Winter turned to spring, and spring to summer

skies. Yet I was not the only one

whose eyes were so fixated upon heaven.

July 20, 1969.

Some 1/5th of Earth's transfixed population,

More than 750,000,000

pairs of eyes were fixed upon the moon.

"Tranquility Base," Neil Armstrong said,

"The _Eagle's_ landed." Earth was breathless as

he poised above the bottom step; and then,

"That's one small step for man, one giant leap

for mankind." With those words America

had won the race to be the first to land

a man upon the moon; and 20 minutes

after that the second. Neil Armstrong

and Buzz Aldrin spent 2 hours upon

the moon in running up the stars and stripes,

saluting, taking photos, and collecting

moon rocks and moon dust, then got back in

their _Eagle_ landing craft, and 19 hours

later, after sleeping ( _who could sleep?_ ),

the _Eagle_ , using its descent stage as

a launch pad, lifted off and reunited

with commander Michael Collins in

_Columbia_. They jettisoned the _Eagle_ ,

and left lunar orbit. Three days later

they splashed safely down in the Pacific.

In the next 3 years there were 4 more

Apollo Mission landings, putting 8 more

astronauts upon the moon. Then on

Dec.7, 1972

Apollo 17, the last manned mission,

lifted off, and 5 hours later, 2 hours

after leaving its earth orbit, and

some 18,000 miles above the earth,

geologist-cum-astronaut-cum-novice

photo snapper Harrison Schmitt snapped

a photo of retreating earth, soon dubbed

_The Blue Marble_ , and which rapidly

became the most devoutly replicated

photograph in history—and _then_

I saw what all of these manned landings on

the moon were all in aid of. Baba's hand

was in it—yes, I saw it, everything—

He pushing them along upon His string.

106. Baba's Best Shooter

The "Blue Marble" _December 7, 1972 (photo by astronaut Harrison Schmitt in Apollo 17 from 18,000 miles on the way to the last manned lunar landing)._

See, one of Baba's favorite pastimes was

to play at marbles with the children. One day

He called on a family, "Children, get

your marbles out; I wish to play a game

with you." Examining the marbles, He

selected a fine "shooter," and insisted

He shoot first. On crouching down His mood

was serious. He shot His shooter with

such cosmic force that two of the glass marbles

shattered into pieces. All the children

were amazed, and wanted their turn. "No,"

He said, "the game is over." It was so.

The landing of the first man on the moon

was _one_ tremendous triumph, thrilling all

the world with mankind's ingenuity.

But after that, I don't know, it just seemed

that spending all those billions upon billions,

all of the technology, resources,

all those brilliant minds to pull it off,

to just come back with yet more photos of

the same old moon, the same old rocks and dust,

and nothing new, well, struck me as a case of

the law of diminishing returns.

But when I saw that Baba's hand was in it,

pushing them along upon His string

on voyage after voyage, shooting for

the moon yet one more costly time till one

or other of them _finally_ had gotten

_The Blue Marble_ He was pining for,

well then it all made perfect sense to me;

that it was worth it all, despite the cost.

You see, the Earth is Baba's finest shooter.

He is proud of it, and wanted us

to see it in its glory. How else could He

show it off to us? And who can blame Him?

He was only human after all.

Which meant, of course—you see? He hadn't _really_

dropped the body and become the Ocean.

Baba was still Baba after all!

I saw Him in each act of Baba's work.

By His not really going away, discern:

He kept His promise to me to return.

107. The Me Decade

Agnes talking in tongues _(one of her many) with equine friend_ , _circa late 1970s (photo by Sam Ervin)._

Just knowing He was there with me in spirit,

made me lose myself the more in doing

Baba's work. And _how_ the time flew by,

as many swore I did upon my broom,

so full of bristles I had to sit way up

on the bow to keep an even keel.

I couldn't go too fast or turn so quickly

Baba wasn't always right there with me,

_me_ , and no one else. And now that I

think back on it, it's likely that it's largely

why the '70s came to be called

the _Me Decade_. But, on second thought,

it's likelier that it's the reason whole.

Whatever, there was no disputing that

it was the _'70s_ , and nearing 70

myself, I was an _old_ witch, and to prove

I was I told my enemies that I

was going to live to be 150.

I started wearing black and took to rubbing

every night a green toad on my nose

to seed a wart, one with a bristly hair.

Yes, they'd good reason to quake in their boots:

a witch is cause enough to tremble, but

an _old_ witch is, well, they'd see soon enough.

A piece of old meat's nowhere near as tough.

Some few years on, on reaching 70

(how much is that, I thought, in watchdog years?),

I left off teaching, got a little pension,

just enough to pay the mortgage, have

a little over. That and selling orchard

fruit, strawberries, and some dozen fertile

cackle fruit each day, all in their season

(and the hens and roosters always were),

gave me a living, with some over I

could put up, much as I put up spare fruit

in Mason jars against a rainy day.

I sold these from the house; for years I'd gone

to town to sell; now let them come to me.

Then truly Meher Mount became for me

the more a world apart. I hardly left.

I ceased to seek out news, and agonize,

about the outside world, for all the good

my ministrations had once ever done it.

Now my world was doing Baba's work,

He right beside me sharing in the love.

We kept the world between us as we went,

I knew within my heart was heaven-sent.

108. The '80s

More blissful years went by, and, as it neared,

I wondered what the end of the Me Decade

would mean for me. Would Baba leave me for

another? I could not believe He would.

Could I still keep up all my Baba's work,

and not think it was work at all, but love?

Yes, I was sure I could, at least at first.

And I was certain I'd still love it, but

would I still have the _agni_ in the belly,

the same old fire that Baba'd seen in me,

when I'd said, "Baba, if you want me to,

I'll keep Meher Mount for you through hellfire

and damnation." Well, damned if the '80s

didn't come along then, and the first few

went by just as if they were no more than

seasons, and not years. And damned, too, if

I wasn't nearing 80, meaning I

was now an even older witch by 10 years,

and I guess there's no few who, in rubbing

me the wrong way, wouldn't all have sworn

that, rather than my losing what was dire

to an old witch, my tongue spit further fire.

They say the older that you get, the faster

fly the years, and I can say it's true.

And so I thought, _Yes! Baba's old as time._

_So that means time must_ _really_ _fly for Him!_

" _When I come back in 700 years . . . ,"_

He'd told us then. How much is that in God years?

Why, it's nothing; less than is a drop

within the ocean. So that means that He

could be _would be_ _returning any moment!_

God, the blazing fire in me He'll foment.

109. Hellfire and Damnation: The New Life Fire

Then came the second Monday of the month,

October 14, 1985.

Columbus Day. Since I had set forth for

the New World, _44_ years gone now, like

Columbus had aboard his caravel,

the _Santa Maria_ , I aboard the _Phoenix_ ,

every second Monday in October

I've observed Columbus Day, on fire.

Yet lately no few argue, "This august

October day might just as justly be

commemorated Agni Day, since _she_

discovered the New World of Meher Mount,

this world apart." But setting that aside,

what I observed this day was that we'd had

no rain for months, and all was tinder dry.

To make things worse, the east side (closest side

to Baba's sacred home in India)

had not been touched by fire in many years,

the whole a perfect firestorm of fuel.

So I observed, my mouth as dry, the forecast:

"Mostly clear today and Tuesday with

strong gusty east and northeast Santa Ana

winds today, _diminishing_ by Tuesday."

That was hopeful. Yet by 4 p.m.

the winds were getting stronger by the hour.

At the same time, looking eastward I

now fearfully observed thick plumes of smoke

from what appeared to be the Ferndale Ranch

some 6 miles east, and I could only think

that, in the midst of so much beastly panic,

sparking quickly bending doe and stag knee:

where there's _so much_ thick smoke, there is _agni_.

Through the smoke I saw, in fear, bright licks

of flame leap skyward, much like deer on fire;

yet I breathed easier, to see the fire

was on the far (north) side of route 150,

godsend of a firebreak. Good and wide,

the fire wouldn't overleap it. _No?_

the wildfire seemed to say with every leap.

The ever shifting winds, now gusting stronger,

drove the fire and smoke in all directions,

twisting, turning, right up to the highway.

Seeing it would imminently starve

to death unless it found more fuel, and soon,

in desperation, feeling a tremendous

gust upon its back, it sent a perfect

firestorm of sparks and embers skyward,

most of which soon died a quick death, but

some larger embers made it to the south side,

where each, touching, found a warm reception.

Just how quickly and voraciously,

unitedly they fed as one upon

the bone-dry glut of warm fuel they received

soon showed the fire's great hunger unrelieved.

The all-consuming fire, hard driven by

the hot, dry Santa Anas swiftly drove it

up the eastern flank of Sulphur Mountain,

and created such a pall of smoke

that residents were in a constant fear

that any moment they would find the fire

upon them, and were urged to get out while

they could before the fire engulfed the only

road. By 8 p.m. the other darkness

added to the fright. A blunt fire crew

was telling me I had to go. I tried

convincing them, "No! drive your truck up to

the swimming pool I keep topped up with sulphur

_fire_ water that will burn your throat

for just this reason: you can pump from it,

fight fire with fire." But they refused for fearing

getting caught up there, with no way out.

I tried to bully them: "Look, are you men

—or _boys_?" Well I was mad enough to spit fire,

but I stopped short, thinking that if I

so much as singed them, they'd charge me with arson.

All along they kept on telling me

I _had_ to leave. By 9 p.m. they wouldn't

take no for an answer. They were damned well

going to make me leave. They wouldn't even

let me go back in the house and get

my shoes. I'd earlier put Khali and

the cats and chickens (these in sacks) all in

the car. I left in high heat, and drove up

the road to Double Dekker Ranch, out to

the large and mostly barren hill they lived on,

safe from fire. Toward the witching hour

now driven on by supernaturally

strong gusts, the fire reached Meher Mount, and fast

swept over it, its hunger fueled by all

within its path as wide as Meher Mount:

the chicken coop, the milking shed (thank God

I had no cow), the barn, the workshop, and

the farmhouse, the garage, then Baba's House

where He had stayed in '56 and given

darshan and prasad to us, and, last,

the house that I'd called home near 40 years,

and all the keepsakes of near 40 more.

And didn't the tall eucalyptus burn!

Never had I seen such an inferno!

hellfire and damnation all at once.

And then, as if it at last the fire'd devoured

what it had come up all this way to get,

the Santa Ana winds died down, then shifted

to the south, and weakly pushed the fire

down into Wheeler Canyon where it died,

with no regrets, its hunger satisfied.

As dark as it was now, I saw all clearly:

it was all the work of Baba's hand,

He pushing me along upon His string

just like a little fish, now out of water.

I'd said I'd keep Meher Mount for Him

through hellfire and damnation, and this was

the test: with nothing left but ashes, would I?

His hand jerking me around so, _should_ I?

Almost 80 years of age now, could I?

I was angry at the "firefighters"

for not pumping water from the pool

to fight the fire; so boiling mad that I

was going to cast a spell on them, and turn

them into _men_ , the greatest firefighters

that the world had ever known, but some

great unknown power interfered and stayed

my witch-black art. But when I understood

that _Baba_ 'd put the fear inside their heads

that they'd get caught up there with no way out,

I asked forgiveness. Their inaction wasn't

due to cowardice; they weren't at fault.

They _had_ to let all burn. They were not flawed;

just powerless against an act of God.

My life _gone_ up in smoke before my eyes,

perhaps you won't be shocked to know that I

went down as low as I could go, far lower

than the relatively rarefied

heights of the lofty Upper Ojai Valley,

all the way down to the Ojai Valley's

east end. Morning found me shoeless, sleepless,

homeless, and, one might have well expected,

_godless_ at the gate of dear, good friend

George Stuart who gave refuge to me and

my small zoo, due to Baba's awful hand.

110. Will You Let Meher Baba Burn You Out?

Another dear friend, Larry Pesta, up in

San Francisco, heard that Meher Mount

was lost to fire, and he flew down that weekend.

He then drove me up, and we stepped out on

ashes, almost ankle deep that once

was, and would be forever, Baba's Place,

still smoldering. I led him up, with Khali

in the lead, as Kali had led me

in leading Baba, all those years ago,

now ashes, to the blessed Baba Tree,

beneath whose tent-like leafy canopy,

then, Baba'd sat so Buddha-like, which now,

all for some embers' touch, was such a sorry

sight. An old, large coastal live oak's mighty

powerful, but doesn't have a mite

of power to flee from a fire that craves

its fuel supply, and has it in for it.

For many years a hollow in its trunk

had been an ideal home for honey bees.

But when the wildfire came it also found

its hollow an ideal means of entry

to outwit its thick protective bark,

and largely hollow-out its massive trunk.

Now 5 days later a small fire crew

was still attempting to extinguish its

still hotly burning, steadfast inner fire.

Completely black, it hadn't one green leaf,

its former God belief become beenlief.

"Oh, Agnes, I fear Baba's Tree is dead.

I'm sorry," Larry said, and put his arm

around me. "This must be so horrible

for you." I turned to look at him, and said,

"The really burning question you must ask

yourself is, 'Could I handle this?" I've been

burned out. Now the most burning question is,

Will you let Meher Baba burn you out

as well if necessary? Will your inner

fire be just as hard as its fire to

extinguish? So hard hit, will you re-leaf,

a sign of unextinguished core belief?"

We grieved, each in our way, and said our silent,

saddest of goodbyes to Baba's Tree;

then turned and, letting Khali lead us once more,

slowly walked down Avatar's Hill, I

more grieving thinking of that other tree

they planted in another age upon

that other Avatar's Hill, Calvary,

but could not think how sad that was to see.

111. Chimneys of Fire

Chimneys of Fire _. All that remains of the house and guest house after the New Life Fire, October 14, 1985 (photo by Sam Ervin)._

We walked among the ruins. All that yet

remained, O bitter irony, were the

two tall brick chimneys and their fireplaces:

one that warmed the house that I called home,

cold winter nights, and that of Baba's House,

before whose unlit fireplace He sat

emitting love, and which was warmed by Him,

that August day so many years now gone.

My mind flashed back to 10 years prior that,

to 1946, when I, in having

climbed the gate, peeked in the windows, and

saw all so beautiful before my eyes,

that now was only ugly, hurtful ashes.

Larry saw the hurt in my old eyes.

"Oh, Agnes, I'm so sorry," and not knowing

what else he could say, yet wanting to

fill up the awful, aching silence, added,

"they say it was arson." "Well of course

it was!" I lashed out. "Any fool could see that!"

sorry as could be the moment it

was out my mouth, he only trying to take

my mind off all the hurt. "Oh, Larry, please

forgive me," I said, wishing I could take it

back, as memory had taken me back

all those years, "I didn't mean to snap

at you. I knew that it was arson, but

I couldn't tell the fire department that,

much less, 'I know the arsonist; what's more,

He touched it off from 8,700

miles away, and oh, yes, by the way,

he dropped the body going on 17

years since—but He'll be back now any time,

and I'm damned sure He'll answer for His crime.'

"Yes, He will answer, as He answered Job,

in giving him another trial by fire

that He might test his faith the more, as He

is testing me by pushing me along

upon His string. But still I wonder that

He had to make me suffer so by giving

me this latest trial by fire by burning

down to ashes all I held most dear,

and for which I've let fall no single tear."

A most dear friend was Larry, and I felt

that I could speak to him straight from the heart.

And yet I don't know that he understood

all that I had revealed about the arson

and the arsonist who started it

from half a world away across the sea,

yet further from—by far—that greatest of

all great divides, so frighteningly great,

that we are loath to speak its name, alluding

to it with a breadth of euphemisms

so gulf broad no one has ever spanned it,

any more than would the fire department,

which they would have taken for the ravings

of a mad religious lunatic.

Now, looking back, it doesn't seem as if

I'd had the courage to speak from the heart

to Larry about all I couldn't tell

the firemen, knowing they'd not understand

about what they see as so damned unlawful,

but to fill that silence so damned awful.

112. Burned-out 1949 Ford Woody

_The sad end of_ Agnes's 1949 Ford Woody Wagon _after the New Life Fire, October 14, 1985 (photo by Sam Ervin)._

To change the subject and the hurt we both

turned in response to an unspoken cue,

and bent our steps away from the two chimneys

through the ashes elsewhere, and, as if

we both were drawn the further to accept

the witness yet of hurtful things, we found

ourselves before the burned out wreckage of

my 1949 Ford Woody wagon,

in which I had driven Baba from

the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood

to Meher Mount, His one and only visit,

August 2nd, 1956,

and back again that evening; and then, after

tearful goodbyes, in which I and Lenny

then drove overnight to San Francisco;

and in which Lud drove, I serving as

our tour guide, Baba and us to Coit Tower,

Lombard Street, and Fisherman's Wharf for

a 2-fish dinner, then the Painted Ladies;

and in which I once more had the pleasure,

Monday, Baba's last day there, of driving

Him across the Golden Gate Bridge to

Muir Woods; and then next morning to the airport,

where, with saddest eyes and sadder heart,

we said what I'd no inkling then would be

our last goodbye for ever; and then I

drove back to Meher Mount, alone and tearful.

Larry shared my hurt, true friend in need.

And when he asked if he could take one of

the hubcaps for a souvenir of love,

I gave him one, in loving him above.

113. Walking on a Cloud

Reluctantly, as if they didn't want

to hurt us more, our feet then led us to

the orchard that was joy itself to see

in spring when it put on its lavish show

of blossoms pink and white and beautiful,

suffusing all the air around with their

most heavenly perfume, and which, when they

sensed that our satiated senses couldn't

take more the exquisite pleasure, but

must swoon, they fell, a late-spring virgin snowfall,

and so made a flower-strewn path we

might walk upon, most heavenly of clouds

that ever was, and, floating high above,

not touch earth, as if we were royalty.

And now, in late October, still we didn't

touch earth, for our walking on a cloud

of ashes that were once the orchard, trees

that gave the sweetest fruit that ever touched

the lips, the tongue, and made the taste buds come

alive, as from the blessed hand of God

that nevermore would give us sweet prasad.

114. Cherokee Rose (Rosa laevigata)

Cherokee Rose _(Rosa Laevigata) that grows along the Trail of Tears._

In walking back on what was once the trail

that led back to the house, our spirits low,

as were my eyes, all of a sudden Larry

cried exuberantly, "Agnes— _look!_

the roses!" Startled, I looked up to where

his hand was pointing, where my small rose garden

used to be along the trail—to _see_

that it miraculously had survived!

When all was desolation all around it,

what explains it _but_ a miracle?

Tears filled my eyes as I walked over to it.

Late October, there were no more roses,

but the canes were still alive, and healthy.

Due to my tears, once more it was Larry,

bless him, who cried, "Agnes, look—a white rose!"

_How could that be?_ I thought. I had no

white roses. But when I looked to where he

was pointing, down low, _sure enough_ , there was

a single snow-white rose with a gold center.

Then it was my turn to cry out, "It's

the Cherokee Rose, Rosa laevigata!"

How the tears in my eyes fell then, freely.

"Larry, it's the rose that grows along

the Trail of Tears the Cherokee were forced

to walk, and oh so many died upon,

when we removed them from their lands; the same trail

Baba followed leaving Myrtle Beach

in 1952 to come here, and

on which He had the horrid accident

west of Prague, Oklahoma, and on which

new Indian Territory He then spilled

His blood, that of an Indian, upon

the tear-soaked heartland of America

for benefit of humankind." My tears

continued falling as we stood there looking

on it for a long time. Then, though neither

of us put it in words, we'd both had

enough heartfelt emotion for one day.

And since we would be coming back the next

to pitch in with the start of cleaning up,

we bent our steps as one toward the car.

Before I put them in the car I knocked

my boots together hard repeatedly,

while wishing I might knock the ashes off them

just as easily, with no repeat,

as Baba had so knocked me off my feet.

115. Deluge

On setting out next morning there were dense clouds

too much like the late thick pall of smoke.

As we drove on up to the Upper Valley,

all the sky began to darken, looking

more and more like rain, though none was forecast.

Just as we turned off 150, which

the fateful embers jumped not 6 days past,

and onto Sulphur Mountain Road, the sky

grew darker yet, accompanied by thunder

(Baba at His game of cosmic marbles),

rain began to spit upon the windshield,

and soon Larry had to turn the wipers

on. Then, just as soon as we began

our long and serpentine ascent, the sky

let loose a thundering deluge worthy of

old Noah's Ark, and kept it up the whole way.

I'd held back my own, but reaching all

the sad, soaked desolation, it all poured out,

" _Larry, why—oh_ _why_ _—in God's name didn't_

He so flood the earth this Sunday past?

There would have been no fire, and Meher Mount

would still be as it always had been, Heaven?"

Even as I sobbed in all my grief

so inconsolably I knew: He _had_ to

visit on me hellfire and damnation,

else He'd never know what He would know:

Will Agni keep her vow to Me to keep

Meher Mount for me through both, or fail and weep?

116. Silver Lining

The crew of Baba-lover volunteers,

despite the flood, were so on fire to get

the place cleaned up that no amount of rain

seemed calculated to put out their fire.

It didn't spread to me. I made no move

to get out. Larry sensed it, and I sensed

he didn't want to make a move himself

that might make me feel guilty, and so force

me out into the rain against my will.

We sat in silence looking at the rain

and worker bees, rain pouring off their wings.

Then Larry broke the silence, "Agnes, look up

at the clouds— _there_ [pointing]—do you see it?"

"What?" I said. "I don't see anything."

"Why surely, Agnes, you must see the silver

lining— _there_. There's one in every cloud."

I had to smile. He brought me out of my

blue funk, and all the more I loved him for it.

"Well, go on, don't keep me in suspense.

What is the silver lining?" "Don't you see?

Although it looks a mess now, Meher Mount

is as it always was and always will be,

never mind its loss of man-made structures,

_beautiful_. Soon all of the debris

will be picked up and hauled away in dumpsters.

Even now this rain is washing all

the ashes, nature's super fertilizer,

deep into the soil. This 'New Life Fire,'

yes, let us call it that, for it occurred

October 14, 1985,

just 2 days from the day, though not the year,

when Meher Baba set out on His New Life,

October 16, 1949.

The fire did Meher Mount a blessed favor:

soon it will abound with _such_ new life!

for it is well known—fire is nature's great

rejuvenator. Some seeds, like the redwood's,

need the heat of wildfires to cause them

to germinate. I feel it in my heart,

don't you? that Baba's Tree is going to _live_

a new life—and be yet more beautiful!

And, Agnes, you'll receive insurance money.

You won't have to work and worry more

about the mortgage payments. We'll get you

a homey trailer, and you'll set out on

your New Life—doing all new Baba's work.

And in a few years you will have the mortgage

payed off, and then you can set up a

perpetual trust, then deed Meher Mount

to it, and thus, whatever comes, though further

hellfire and damnation, you'll be keeping

Meher Mount in perpetuity

for Him, for all of _your_ fire—don't you see?"

117. New Life

"Oh, Larry, that is just the talk I needed.

Yes, it _is_ the start of a New Life,

for Meher Mount, for me—oh, Lord, I'm surely

starting on it now, I feel so young.

I can't wait till I'm finally finished teething,

and can really get my adult teeth

sunk into this New Life I know will be

so sweet, unlike that long ago forbidden

fruit that left such a bad taste in Adam's

mouth, because it wasn't he that picked it,

yet he lost his garden that was Eden."

As the rain continued, we continued

talking of the New Life, all of the

new things we'd see and do and say—and _live_.

An hour went by, then 2, then 3, then 4.

And then the worker bees all called it quits,

although the rain did not, and taunted them

with downpours larger yet for being quitters.

"You know they're all going to be as mad

as hornets at you," I said, "for not working."

"I can well imagine," Larry said.

"No matter, that is fine. Let them be mad.

You did your job, one they could never do,

This New Life Day. And I thank God for you."

118. Super-Bloom

It wasn't long before dear friend Bing Heckman

got a trailer for me, placing it

as my heart wished, so each day I would have

that loveliest of views of Topa Topa,

when that blush suffuses her whole face,

to have the sun she dearly loves beam on her

every sunset, loving her "pink moment,"

as she calls it, dearly, as we do.

So, with new hope and joy new swelling all

my heart, once more I moved to Meher Mount,

as I had almost 40 years before.

More tears of joy now filled my eyes as I

and Khali stood before the Baba Tree,

to see that it was _coming back to life_ ,

as was the ravaged land. A "super-bloom,"

as happens after wildfires, was afoot

and underfoot, and had me at its feet

—for soon would come the California poppies,

red maids, California peonies,

fiesta flowers, blue dicks, wild cucumbers,

purple owl's clover, fiddlenecks,

forget-me-nots, wild mustard, purple sage,

hedge nettles, giant wildrye, peppergrass,

Eucrypta, whispering bells, Shepard's purse,

phacelias, lupines, heartleaf penstemons,

and oh so many more "fire followers,"

which only, or in much profusion, come

behind a fire, as mothers come behind

a firestorm of a child, to put things right.

And how I thrilled to know that I'd soon see

_life everlasting_ , Meher Mount–wide staple

—such a sweet smell! butterscotch and maple.

119. No Bed of Roses

So phenomenal is this effect

of fire at causing super-blooms, that someone

quite as wildly wise as witty quipped,

"I wonder botanists aren't arsonists."

Well it so happens that I know of one.

And consequently I was so on fire

to see the coming show I waxed a busy

worker bee to help to clean up all

the fire debris, so California sagebrush,

Indian paintbrush, bristly ox-tongue, and

coyote brush should find a nice clean canvas

they might paint their all-the-colors-of-

the-rainbow floral masterpiece upon.

And in my zeal I placed a light stepladder

up against the dumpster so that I

might get a leg up on debris in hand

and dump it in. In fact, I got a couple

of legs up, and, giving a charred piece

of wood a heave, one of the ladder's legs

collapsed a gopher tunnel, and the ladder

tipped disastrously, and I fell hard

upon my back, to agonizing pain,

such that I couldn't move, nor could I call

for help. I had to wait for what seemed an

eternity for someone shocked to find me.

She called out, and soon all were about me.

When I weakly said it was my back,

they thought it wisest not to move me, called

an ambulance. When it arrived the medics

gave me something, and as carefully

as they could, picked me up and gently lay

me on the stretcher. Next thing I remember's

waking up, the doctor looking down

on me, from so high up it seemed, and saying,

"Agnes, you've a broken back. The good news

is your spinal cord has not been injured.

You won't need an operation, but

you'll need to stay here for a few days,

flat upon your back, a pain, I know,

but you can handle that, you're strong, and that

you'll have to wear a back brace for some

8–12 weeks, till the break is mended."

So much for my New Life; but I caught

myself in feeling sorry for myself,

and would have laughed if it would not have hurt

so damned much to see Baba's hand in it,

still pushing me along upon His string,

I spending my New Life bemoaning what

the super-bloom so early on discloses.

What did I expect, a bed of roses?

120. No Super-Bloom

Yes, it would be a super-bloom—and it

would heal the fire-scarred land that was my back!

Already I could feel the New Life sprouting,

even if I couldn't see it, pushing

up, like Baba pushing me, in seeking

sun, and everything that life on this

blest earth— _a life of beauty!_ —has to offer.

And it _was_ a bed of roses, mine,

the fire had so miraculously spared

instead of scarred, in glorious full bloom,

more for the white, angelic faces of

the Cherokee Rose ( _Rosa laevigata_ ),

brightening the Trail of Happy Tears.

And all across the new land all the other

super-bloomers rose up in their glory,

making _all_ the land, as one supposes

who so thinks on it, a bed of roses.

Yet, as I had been led to believe

so much, no super-bloom came to that other

Agni-scarred land, much as if it had

been worked to death for years, and was depleted,

and thus needed to be put to fallow.

So it was, effectively, within

my back brace. Whacking down the weeds to rob

such wildfires as would threaten it of fuel

was out of my hands, much less working it.

And even, long months later, when I took it

out of fallow, and then tried to work it,

not the tireless "outside man" I once was,

it was not the soil it used to be,

as if the land was suffering a long drought,

which, by all appearances, was endless,

as my strength to work it once, now mendless.

121. Saving Breath

My fall had broken more than just my back;

somehow, some way, it broke my voice in half,

and those I spoke to, faintly, had to lean in

close to catch my drift, and drift it did,

especially if a zephyr lightly blew it

downrange of them. Doctors couldn't say why.

No surprise there, when you think, as I,

that half all doctors graduated in

the bottom half of their class. But I could have

told them why, but didn't, as I didn't

tell the fire department _arson_. Baba

wanted me to save my breath for something,

though He didn't let on what, or when.

I learned this when He came to me in dream.

He told me when the time came, I would know.

Well, weeks went by in my debilitated

state, not able to do much, then months.

I wasn't getting any stronger; still

I kept on keeping on. A year went by.

I marked the anniversaries of both

the New Life Fire and my life-changing fall,

and you won't be surprised to know I didn't

celebrate the one date or the other.

Another year passed, still with no improvement

to my back or to my voice. In fact,

it seemed that I was slowly getting weaker:

less the doer, with time, less the speaker.

122. Guardian Angels

Ken Ceder, Len Ceder, Agnes, Tom Entwistle _early 1990s (photo by Peter Carni)._

Some few more months went by, then in the last week

of February, 1988,

I being 81 and yet more change,

A guardian angel came into my life:

Ken Ceder, 12-year Baba-lover, called

from Santa Barbara, saying that he'd heard

of me, and asked if he could come and meet me.

Weakly, though I tried to say it strongly,

I said, 'Yes.' He came up next day with

wife Laura, and 2 bottles of champagne.

The date was February 25th,

their 2nd wedding anniversary,

as well as being, I knew, Baba's birthday.

Ken loud-popped a cork, and I was happy

toasting them, their anniversary.

At some point, as if she felt three a crowd,

dear Laura ambled off with one of the

chilled bottles of Korbel champagne, and Ken

and I talked, almost head to head, so he

could hear. I asked him, "How long have you lived

in Santa Barbara?" He stalled, but then finally

said, "A couple years or so." I said,

"How come you never came to Meher Mount

before?" I leaned in, almost touching noses,

pixyish look on my face, and got out,

in a weak voice, and a bit unsteady,

but no waiver in it, "You weren't ready."

123. Did He Send You?

Blushing just a little, he confessed

he wasn't ready, and his look conveyed,

without he said as much, "But now I'm ready."

Once more, as if we were Eskimos,

I put my nose to his nose. "Did He send you?"

He made no reply; he didn't need to.

He was so attentive to my needs,

and asking was there anything that he

could do for me, and not just one time out of

politeness, so I knew he was sincere.

Before he left he made sure I had water,

and did other thoughtful things for me,

those little things one does when one befriends one.

Baba knows an angel when he sends one.

Ken phoned again a few days later, asking,

"Could I bring my brother Len to meet you?"

"Yes," I said, as strongly as I could,

but nowhere near as strongly as I felt.

They came, and Len was every bit as sweetly

caring for my needs, as if they were

identically sweet guardian angel twins.

When Ken had come the first day he had noticed

(just like Baba doesn't miss a thing)

that when my phone inside the trailer rang,

and I was outside, and could not move quickly,

that I'd miss the call, and so they'd got me

a cordless phone. _Who_ does that for a friend

whom they've just met? Not only that, they'd had

to push a lot of strings and go to great

expense (though I would never hear it from

their lips, but from a little bird) to get

the number 640-0000,

so that it would be easy to remember.

How, then, could I not say _"Oh!"_ as many

times, and let fall a like number of

tears from each eye, though those of you who know

the roles the eyes and tear ducts and emotions

play when one is touched so very deeply,

and who understand such matters of

the heart know it's but a rough estimate.

Considering each angel was my hero,

the chance each eye shed but 5 tears is 0.

From that day forth my guardian angels took

to coming frequently, though not together,

as a rule, and doing more and more

things for me, such as shopping, cooking, laundry.

Before too long they started caring for me

round the clock. They alternated 4 days

on and three days off; then 3 days on

and 4 days off. This when they had a business,

and family responsibilities.

And even on the weekends he was off,

Ken sold organic produce at his local

farmer's market, and he used to make me

apple sauce, which I enjoyed so much.

They did so much for me I wanted to

give something back, but I had nothing but

some few mementos, that somehow were not

lost in the fire. One day when Ken was there

I asked him, "Would you like to have this?" and

I gave him my framed high school graduation

photo, 1923, aged 16.

"Agnes," he said, "this is your 1 photo."

I know," I said, "but I want for you

and Len to have it. You both do so much

for me, and I just want to say how much

I love you for it." We both felt love's touch.

124. There Will Be Another Fire

A year went by, and one night Baba came

to me in dream. He seemed so very real,

although He'd dropped the body 20 years

before. He said, "I love you very much.

Don't worry, I'll return." He paused a moment,

then looked very serious, and added,

"There is going to be _another fire_ ;

and you are going to be the arsonist."

" _No, Baba, no!"_ I pleaded _"Oh please, Baba,_

I want nothing more to do with fire!"

But Baba clapped His hands, and that was that.

Then He was gone, and there was no appeal.

I woke up frightened. Ken was just beginning

4 days on. I told him my dream, hoping

he might know what Baba meant, and calm

my fears. "I'm sure that it's symbolic," Ken said

confidently. "There's no fuel now for

another wildfire. Meher Mount is cleared."

Well that so eased my mind that I dismissed

the dream as something that I ate before

I went to bed that didn't set with me,

and thought of it no longer, worry free.

Some 2 or 3 days later, as he did

each afternoon when had the mailman flown

round every hairpin turn upon 2 wheels,

and skidded to a stop abreast the mailbox,

Ken brought me the mail: yet one more dunning

letter from the mortgage company.

I opened it routinely, but that's all

there was routine about it. I won't try

to reproduce the legalese. What it

said in effect was, "Dear Ms. Baron: Your

most recent mortgage payment satisfied

your 33-year obligation to us

in full. Herewith, Meher Mount is free

of debt. You owe us nothing. We owe _you_

our 'Thank you' for your longtime patronage.

So toast yourself, shout out, _kick up your heels!_ "

I added that last line myself because

I wanted so much to do all three things,

though I knew I could only do the first.

I should have thought that that was why the mailman

flew round every corner on 2 wheels

this blessedest of all read-letter days:

to get the heaven-sent news to me sooner,

did he not fly 2-wheel fast each one,

his workday over when his route was done.

I flew to Ken and shouted out the blest news,

so to speak (in whispers), so to fly

(at turtle's pace). He did the shouting for me,

" _Thank the Lord!_ Oh, that is such good news!

We three must celebrate, you, Len, and I.

Tomorrow Len will be here." And he hugged me,

held me close, and no eye was there but

could not have put a raging wildfire out.

The next day, as per schedule, Len arrived,

a bottle of champagne in ice in hand.

He hugged me and congratulated me.

"How you must feel, Agnes! Only think

of having made the monthly mortgage payment

no less than _396_ times

—not counting all the lease-to-own-type payments

in the worrisome 10 years before

you got the mortgage in your own good name.

That calls for ceremony. Surely you

will celebrate in the time-honored way?"

"Yes, will you, Agnes? It's a long tradition,"

Ken put in. "But just what way is that?"

I asked. "It's such a whirlwind of emotion,

that it's all too many for my mind."

"Why, Agnes," Len said, "all around the world

the custom is to have a mortgage burning."

"And the mortgagee," Ken added, "has

the honor—joy!—of putting match to it."

As God's my witness, all the blood drained from

my face, and I most fainted dead away.

"Why, Agnes, what's wrong?" Len said. "Don't you feel well?"

" _That's my dream!"_ I croaked. "Yes, it's the dream

of every mortgagee," Ken said. "No, you

don't understand," I said, "I meant my dream

of _Baba_. Don't you see? He said, 'There's going

to be another fire. And you are going

to be the arsonist.' " Then they were speechless,

as I was at first. And we all looked

at one another tongue-tied, till I croaked,

"It's Baba— pushing me along upon

His little string, His little fish, not strong,

to be an _arsonist_. What can go wrong?"

"A dream job! Agnes, don't you see? He wants

for you to go along with long tradition,"

Len put forth. I saw it all, then, clearly.

" _That_ was what the New Life Fire was all

about," I whispered. "Baba went to all

the trouble, I see now, to show me how

to go about this mortgage-burning business.

He's not only gone out of His body,

but His way to teach me how to be

an arsonist, so how could I not take

to heart His devastating technique, and

apply it to my New Life Fire? So, Ken,

what we'll need, first, if you would be so good,

is one large piece of corrugated zinc,

and one large concrete block. And, Len, if you

would be so kind, now, as to get us an

old board, not too long, and a thin strip of

black plastic, I will fetch the mortgage and

some lucifer-type matches." They were back

with theirs before I got back with my own.

"Yes, good. Ken, lay the zinc upon the table

with the block on top. Now let us slant

the board against the block, both facing east.

Len, lay the plastic strip along the flat edge

of the zinc. That's it. Now let me prop

the mortgage up against the board. There. See?

The mortgage is the east face of the mountain;

the corrugations are the undulations,

foothills of the land; the plastic strip

is Route 150; and the matches—sulphur,

work of Lucifer—shall be the embers.

Baba's fated me the arsonist,

plus, I shall be the Santa Ana winds

that then will blow them clear across the highway,

one of which will make it, burning yet,

and set the God-damned mortgage all ablaze."

(They looked at one another with surprise.)

I'm not sure how I'll do it with my breath

so cut in half, but something tells me Baba's

own will be the wind beneath my wind.

"What parts will we play, Agnes?" Ken inquired.

"Why, you and Len will be the looky-loos,

without which no fire that dares call itself

a fire would be complete. Your jobs? Just this:

you'll both accept the witness of the fire;

and I the infamy that I'll acquire.

"Now, if you boys are ready I'll now strike

a match. . . . Yes, as expected, it went out

before it reached the other side. But I

will keep on striking any number more,

until one finally makes it to the other

side, and, touching, gets a warm reception . . .

_there!_ Oh, look, it's smoldering. By God,

it's taken hold—yes, there's a _flame!_ It's small,

but, hold on, I can feel a Santa Ana

coming . . . stronger . . . here it is now— _whoosh!_

It almost blew it out! [I thrilled to feel

my breath so strong] But now it's larger—hold on,

I can hear a strong gust coming down

the canyon—can you hear it?—brace yourselves now

— _WHOOSH!_ [how I rejoiced. I had my full breath

back again—in full force! Baba never

said why He was having me save half

my breath, but when the time came, I would know.

And now I knew: to make the wildfire rage.]

See how it burns now, boys! That legalese

is drier than brush in a 10-year drought.

Still, I'll give it another strong gust— _WHOOSH!_

Yow! look at her rage now, boys! There's no stopping

her. But just in case there is some fresh new

legalese that's green, here's one more— _WHOOSH!_

See how it's racing up the mountainside,

and now is sweeping over the broad summit,

so I'll give it one more huge gust now

— _WHOOSH!_ just to make sure it burns every legal

building to the ground—yes, go, fire—GO!

Boys, look at it, now—nothing left but ashes!"

Useless all their fire-break backslashes."

Len popped the cork and poured us each a champagne

glass of cold Korbel champagne, and said,

"Three cheers for the New Life— _hip, hip, hooray!_ "

How eager I was to have my full-throated

voice match _out_ match theirs in joyous volume.

Oh! but when the three rang out, _theirs only_

could be heard, my voice back to a whisper.

Instead of joyful, I was so depressed.

My promised New Life wasn't such a new life.

Ken and Len did not know what to say,

in sensing my depression, and I felt

for their discomfort, wanting to relieve it.

So I feigned a happy face, and whispered,

"It's just Baba pushing me along

upon His string," and added, half believing,

"He wants me to save my breath for yet

a greater fire, although I can't imagine

what that fire will be, or where, or when,

or _how_ , no matter how hard I should blow

upon it, I could cause it to be burning

more than my poor, weak half-voice's yearning."

125. Trust

The mortgage ashes and the champagne bubbles

helped us put on truly happy faces,

and we talked of what a great life milestone

it was, my no longer having that

life-grinding/crushing 33-year millstone

round my neck, free all the fear of losing

Meher Mount to some slick mountebank

like Bosford with his plan of opening

a grand hotel—for _psychics_ —quite unable

to foresee that it was Baba's Place,

now and forever, and watched over by

His watchdog _and_ the Witch of Sulphur Mountain.

How we laughed at that and other things.

"And speaking of forever," Ken said, "now

you're free to think of setting up a trust,

and deeding Meher Mount to it, so it

will be His Place in perpetuity."

"Yes, Bing will help," Len said, "I'll call him up,

and I'll say, 'Mr. Heckman, can you help

this poor, dear, give-'em-hel—heck woman out."

We drank up all of the champagne, this after

we were tipsy as heck with the laughter.

Bing did more than help; he set it up

in legalese, called Meher Mount Corporation,

a nonprofit 501(c)3,

a life trust. I donated Meher Mount

to it, and in exchange I'd get to live there

for the rest of my life; then I chose

the first board members; some were Baba-lovers,

some were just good people. As I'd written

Baba back in '56 when I'd

returned home, 'Baba, you are universal;

everybody's yours, so Meher Mount

does not need to be just for Baba-lovers.

You said no one knows a thing about love

anyway, so I'm not going to limit

Meher Mount to solely Baba-lovers.

Anybody who's in trouble, poor,

abused, or sick, especially Mexicans

and Indians, will be my work, my love.'

And Baba wrote back, 'Dear Beloved Watchdog,

Meher Mount is in your loving hands.

Whatever you say is all right with me.'

So that's the way it's been, and now will be

forevermore, in perpetuity.

How great was the relief to have that more-

than-half-a-lifetime worry off my mind.

Now I could concentrate on getting stronger,

all my breath back _for another fire_.

I wanted so to get it back, but I

was frightened it would come at _what great cost?_

of one more fire, whenever it would be.

But that was all in Baba's hands. I had

to put my other trust in Him. It wouldn't

help for me to worry over it.

Just like a watched pot (all the more a cauldron)

never boils, that fire would come when Baba,

irrespective of my once-burned fright,

in His great wisdom, felt the heat just right.

126. Welcome Center

Both Ken and Len took such great loving care

of me, doing almost everything for me;

and I so wanted to get stronger for them,

so that I could do some of the mundane

things myself, and ease their angels' burdens.

In this loving way a year went by,

but I did not get stronger; even going

outside, where all my life I'd loved to be,

was difficult. A trailer gets to be

a pretty small place when you spend most all

your time in it, just looking at the same

old features you've looked at a million times,

and gets so hot most all days, even with

a fan on high speed blowing on you day

and night. Still, I had love and company

I loved, which went a long way, even if

I couldn't. Then, too, just like, now and then,

a blind pig finds an acorn, I would find one

in the welcome form of visitor.

And in this way another year went by.

Then one hot, dull day Ken was all for saying,

"Agnes. Let's build you a house. Let's get you

in a place where you'll be safe and healthy."

"Build a house just for _me_?" I objected

in my strongest whisper. "I could not

agree to that." "Well how about we build

a place for you, but which would largely be

a Welcome Center for all visitors.

I know an architect in Santa Barbara.

He is French, from Rouen, and a nice

young man. His name is Michel Saint-Sulpice.

You'd like him. I could bring him out to meet you."

Stunned, I wondered if I'd heard him right.

"Ken, did you say that he is from _Rouen_ ,

the sacred home of saintly Joan of Arc?"

"Yes, do you know Rouen?" he said, surprised.

I don't think that I answered, being lost in

vivid memories of long ago,

God, 1941. "Is he a phoenix?"

I said in a whisper to myself.

"No, not from Phoenix, Agnes, from _Rouen_."

I saw that Baba's hand was in it, pushing

Joan in pushing him in pushing me

along upon His string of many hooks.

"Uh, Agnes?" Ken said. "Oh . . . oh, yes, Ken, bring him."

And he brought Michel. I liked him right off.

He was lovely. I thought him a knight

in shining amour. And we talked about

the Welcome Center (some), and of Rouen

and Joan of Arc, and had a lovely time.

Michel said he'd come up with some designs

and show them to me in a couple weeks.

"Yes, fine," I whispered. It was all so heady.

I saw the design in it already.

True to his knightly word, Michel returned

in two weeks with some 5 or 6 designs.

They all were lovely, and I could have chosen

any one, and been quite happy in

my choice. But clearly that which won my heart

was the southwest design, whose style and color

struck me most of earth; but more because

it so heartwarmingly reflected both

our rich but sadly, shamefully neglected

Indian and Spanish heritages.

In my heart I knew that it would be

a long-due Welcome Center that showed, by

design, that it especially welcomed them.

I had such a warm feeling for Michel

and for his Welcome Center that I poured

my whole life savings, $20,000,

into it to give it a good start,

as from commencement I had poured my heart.

Michel then went to work, and knowing him,

as I had come to in so short a time,

I know that he did not need my example

to throw his whole heart into the plans.

He didn't rush them. No detail was too small

that he didn't think of and envision

it from every angle. Six weeks later

he returned, and rolled up in his hand

he didn't have just one; he had _some_ plans,

which, all around, won everyone's approval.

Two weeks on, Michel, Bing Heckman, and

Paul Belgum showed up. Soon the ringing sound

of picks on hard earth told: they'd broken ground.

The welcome interest that it added to

my life cannot be measured, and I was

so grateful for it all. _Work fascinates me._

_I can sit and watch it by the hour_.

How fondly, too, I did, propped up in bed,

or in my easy chair, and what a treat

it was when I was free enough of pain

to get outside. And yet it deeply hurt me

that I was no longer strong enough

to be the "outside man" and pitch in, doing

what I could to help the cause, and loving

every moment of doing Baba's work;

and yet more that I could no longer speak

of it in strong-full-throated voice as in

the golden days, but only in a whisper,

as the leaves when withered, dry, and crisper.

127. A Third Guardian Angel

The work went on apace, as did the weeks.

But there were periods when, for a lack

of funds or Baba-lover volunteers

who had outside commitments, such as life,

all work came to a halt, although the weeks

brooked no cessation, marching on as always.

Oh how tedious was life then, as it

never was when had the work begun.

Thank God for Ken and Len, my guardian angels,

who took loving care of me through thick

and thin, and added such sweet interest to

my life. Without them I don't know what I'd

have done. I might not have survived for long.

It seemed that they were saving me for something,

as was Baba saving my full breath.

A year or so went by; and then there came

into my life another guardian angel:

Tom Entwistle was a close friend of

both Ken and Len. In spirit they were brothers.

Tom took Wednesdays so that Ken and Len

would both have 4 days off each week. They showed

him all the things they did for me, and it was

as if he was to the manner born,

he taking the same loving care of me.

Despite all my infirmities, I knew

that Baba held His dear Beloved Watchdog

in His heart, watched over me, and I

could not help feeling I was truly blest,

within my heart, that all was for the best.

128. Devil's Island

Another year went by. Despite the work

hiatuses, the Welcome Center was

beginning to look welcoming to me,

especially on hot days when the trailer

seemed like Devil's Island, I the prisoner

Papillon much scheming my escape.

One such day Tom said, "Agnes, you seem lost

in thought today. What are you thinking of?"

I whispered, all the weaker now, "I'm planning

my escape from Devil's Island. I

am going to fill a sack with coconuts,

and throw it and myself into the Sea

of Time, and let the current bear me to

the Welcome Center, _sanctuary_ , _freedom_."

"You have planned it out well, I can see.

I'll get the coconuts for you from _Ralphs_.

You purchased Meher Mount from him for plenty

coconuts some 47 years

ago. He surely won't begrudge you one

escape-size burlap sack of them to float

you far from Devil's Island singing, _'I've_

_got a lov-e_ - _ly bunch of coconuts_. _'_ "

We laughed and laughed about our nuttiness,

though Tom, I'm sure, could not hear my weak laugh,

and took it at face value: less than half.

129. Escape

Topa Topa Bluffs _viewed from Meher Mount (photo by Brad Spur)._

The work, the prison life, the months went by,

and came the New Year, 1994.

Like everyone, I thought, "What will it bring?"

A couple of weeks later, as if he

had read my mind, Ken came into the trailer

bringing some wheeled thing all folded up,

which he proceeded to unfold—a wheelchair.

"Agnes, I thought you might want to see,"

he said, "just how the Welcome Center's coming."

You might know I did, and I was thrilled.

He got me into it, and then he wheeled me

through the door and onto the small stoop.

And then I saw that he had improvised

a ramp upon the stairs, which he was just

about to wheel me down when he remarked,

"The wheelchair's light, and, Agnes, so are you;

the ground is wavy. To be on the safe side,

so there is no danger of us tipping,

I think we should ship aboard some ballast."

With a grunt he then picked up a small sack

filled with what appeared to be large rocks,

and, with another grunt, he got it in

the web shelf underneath my seat with, " _Phew!_

There now, I think we're ready," and he slowly

wheeled me down the ramp and then toward

the Welcome Center, down the side and round

the back and to the other side that has

the most exquisite view of Topa Topa,

to a lovely wood door. **"Here we are!"**

he said, a little loudly, I thought. You'd

have thought that he'd said, _'Open Sesame!'_

the way the door then opened wide, and he

then pushed me inside to my shocked _"SURPRISE!"_

as raised by just the sweetest all-boys choir,

in which I could just make out, through tears,

Ken, Len, Tom, Bing, Paul, and Michel. Then someone

pushed a string that drew a curtain back,

revealing a large banner, and I read

congratulations, agnes, upon your

escape from devil's island 'top the foam

by floating on a sack of coconuts

to sanctuary, freedom—your new home!

And I would not have banned it for the world!

The whole struck me so dumb that even if

I'd had my full voice I could not have spoken.

Ken spoke volumes for me when he reached

beneath my seat, and easily, no grunting,

hoisted out the sack of "rocks," and said,

"Here, Tom, why don't you take these coconuts.

We won't need them for 'ballast' anymore,

since Agnes won't be floating her way back

to Devil's Island, and I'm betting you

could make some wonderful _piña coladas_

with them," All that I could whisper in

a yet more broken voice was, "Oh, you dear,

dear rascals," letting my tears go on speaking.

"Wait," Tom put in, "here's a card that's come

with them. It's for you, Agnes," and I read:

"Dear Agnes, we could not be happier

or prouder to think our few coconuts

should aid in some small way your bold escape

from Devil's Island to your freedom—home.

Allow us to float this well wish to you:

May you live many, many, many happy

years in it.

From all of us at _Ralphs_.

130. Welcome Home

I thought I must run out of tears, but still

they fell as though my head contained a sea.

We'd need the coconuts to stay afloat!

The boys were just as happy then to show me

my new home as I was to be shown.

And, oh, it was so beautiful and new

and spacious and so airy and so cool,

with fans and open windows all around:

the large and open kitchen with the latest

appliances; the lovely bedroom; and

the sparklingly clean bathroom with its large tub;

and the spacious, cozy living room;

and there for those cold winter days and nights

was Baba's fireplace, and His spirit, steps

outside my door, much warming me. A dream home!

"Agnes, we'll fetch all of your things over

here for you," Len said, "but first there's something

we've not shown you yet. It's the acoustics,

just how wonderfully they lend themselves

to choral groups. To show you, we've arranged

a demonstration right here in the living

room. So, Ken, Tom, Bing, Michel, and Paul,

if you're all ready, lift your voices now.

Hmmmm."

" _Happy birthday,_ _happy birthday!_ _to_

you, Agnes—this makes such a happy score.

Blow out your candles, make our wish come true:

to wish you 'Happy birthday!' many more."

Accompanying all the _"Happy birthday"_ s,

and the many more of happy tears,

Michel then entered bearing a large cake

with oh so _many_ warmly burning candles

one could not begin to count them all;

but knowing it was 1994,

I just had to subtract 1907

to arrive at _87_ years

and candles. There was no computing tears.

131. Candles in the Wind

But how was I to blow out 87

candles _in one breath_ if my wish were

to come true, when I'd only breath to whisper?

It saddened me to think I didn't have

the breath to make my yearning wish come true:

to have the breath to blow the candles out

to make my wish come true, and make their wish

come true as well. Hold on— _epiphany!_

Who said they had to be blown out _together_?

If I blew out each with but one breath,

I'd thus have blown them _all_ out with one breath.

And so I plucked a candle, held it close,

and found just breath enough to blow it out.

I rested a few seconds till my head cleared,

got my second wind, and then I plucked

another candle, did the same, and so on,

85 times more. And when at last

I finished, everyone applauded me

for all my ingenuity, and for

my superhuman lung capacity.

How happy I was—my wish would come true:

I'd get my full breath back some blest sweet day!

What angels they all were to be so patient.

But the long time had a good effect:

It gave Tom plenty of time to extract

sweet coconut cream from the coconuts,

and squeeze pineapple juice out of the fresh

pineapples from Hawaii, and then mix

the 2 together with white and dark rums,

add ice, and top off each _piña colada_

with a luscious maraschino cherry.

There remained now but to cut the cake,

which, since I was the birthday girl, the honor

fell to me—and did we celebrate!

with seconds, thirds, and so on, and much laughter.

Then I whispered into Tom's ear, "Did you

use up all the coconuts?" He said,

"I did." I motioned for Ken to come close,

and whispered in his ear, "Ken, what will we

now use for ballast when we're _all_ so tipsy."

Tom and Ken both broadcast what I'd whispered

to them to the boys, and everybody

laughed it up, and so we carried on.

In just this loving way I learned Michel

and all the boys, Bing, Paul, Tom, Ken, and Len,

were planning my escape the whole time, men.

132. A Witching Formula

They'd rushed to get it finished by my birthday.

How could I not love them all the more?

The Welcome Center would be finished soon,

and I'd be welcoming the Mexicans

and Indians, the poor, abused, and sick,

and loving all the more doing Baba's work.

They fetched all my stuff over. _I was home!_

And now I could reflect. God, _87_.

Well, I really was an old witch now,

and at the apex of my witching power.

Surely, now that Baba's place was safe

for ever, and I'd little need for witching,

other than to spite my enemies,

and kick up in their faces, I could spare

some of that power now in getting stronger;

some of my propensity for breathing

fire for simply getting my full breath back.

Right off, though, I couldn't see just how

to do that, yet I felt sure that if I

might only ruminate upon it for

a goodly spell, that it would come to me.

_My New Life was commencing_ , I could see.

Yet some things from my old life still remained

and clung to me, most cherished of all that

my guardian angels took such loving care

of me. Intuitively I could not

but feel this witch's brew of old and new

was just the formula for getting stronger,

and I took a strong draught of it just

as neat as it was straight, and—bats in Sheol!—

It put so much _agni_ in my belly,

such that I expected right away

to feel a surge of power, yet I didn't.

What I felt instead of feeling stronger,

frailer, was debilitating letdown.

I could not account for it. A week

went by—then in a flash it came to me:

No wonder! The whole thing was in my _head_.

And what I needed, I could see it plainly,

was a surefire witching formula

for getting it down in my body where

the strength was needed. No one, least of all

my enemies, would ever have said I

had need of being any more strong-headed.

What I'd been all that time was wrongheaded.

133. Agnes, Rest

It would come to me. I only had

to ponder it some more. A week went by.

Then came the welcome news: the Welcome Center

was completed! And it was as lovely

as my home was. All it wanted was

a ceremony only less than I

and all the others. And we had it much

as we had my home warming, but with many

more guests, and with much more joy and laughter.

Then Ken made a little speech, and said,

"This Welcome Center we now consecrate

in His name is the culmination of

our own dear Agnes's intrepid, bold

discovery of Meher Mount, a world

apart, some 48 years since, and how

she's worried, worked, and sacrificed to keep it

for Meher Baba, His Beloved Watchdog,

nipping at the heels of hypocrites,

and at their throats, and kept her vow to keep

Meher Mount for Him through hellfire and damnation.

Loving her as fondly as I do,

I know you join me now in saying, each one,

'Agnes, rest. Your life's great work is done.' "

Had I Demosthenes' great power of speech,

I should have been as struck dumb with emotion

at the thought of all the years and all

the love I felt for those who so loved me

they wished me " . . . rest: Your life's great work is done."

Still, I felt I had Baba's work to do,

and for which I so needed to get stronger.

They'd be coming, now, the poor; downtrodden;

sick; and needy; homeless; hopeless; those

down on their luck; and those on drugs I'd need

to get on programs; the ex-convicts that

I'd have to use some bullying to get jobs,

"or, ma'am, they'll put me back in the clink";

the lovely Chumash Indians who'd need

a place where they could practice their religion;

those in search of knowing Meher Baba;

and the Baba-lovers knowing that

their search is over, yet is just beginning.

I'd need strength for all of them and more,

and finding Baba's work to do for each;

A strength that Baba will put within reach.

134. Silence

I racked my head the while to come up with

the formula to get my strength of mind

down in my body where I desperately

had need of it. Hope surged when winter turned

to spring, with all its promise of renewal.

Surely now my body and my breath

would start to "leaf out," and my guardian angels

glory in, and celebrate with me

my vigorous new foliage brought on by

my surging, newly wakened flow of sap.

But hope soon turned to dismally heart-breaking

disappointment to accept that I

was growing weaker. I kept hoping any

moment strength would kick in, signalling

my glorious rebirth. But I kept sinking.

Soon I could not walk, an invalid.

But even more distressing was I could not

speak, my whisper weakened so that I

could not be understood. Demoralized,

I sank into depression. But then I

saw Baba's hand in it, still pushing me

along upon His string: He wanted me

to be as He had been, completely silent.

Why I did not know. Again it was

as if He wanted me to save my breath

for something that I didn't understand.

I took to using signs that Baba made

with His own hands with Ken and Len and Tom.

What I could not express this way I wrote out,

"speaking" silently to eyes, not ears,

as Baba had for 43-plus . . . [tears].

135. Breath Comes Hard

But, still, as spring gave way to summer, I

did not lose hope that I might yet get back

my strength and my full voice. If Baba, in His

Avataric form of Jesus Christ,

could raise up Lazarus, he 4 days dead,

then He could bring me back to health and strength

as easily as He could push a string.

But summer had no more than just begun

when I began to find it hard to get

my breath. I struggled with it stubbornly

for most a week, not saying anything

to any of my angels. I just had

a cold or something; I'd get over it.

I didn't sleep at all that night for fear

of dying in my sleep for want of breath.

That morning Ken was caring for me, and

I rang the bell. He read my note, and blanched.

He didn't hesitate. He called the Ojai

Hospital Emergency: "I'm bringing

someone in. She's 87, having

trouble breathing. Send an ambulance

to Meher Mount at 9902

Sulphur Mountain Road. I'll meet it on

150. I will flash my headlights." He

then dashed out, and was quickly back again.

He picked me up and carried me out to

his truck he'd rushed to park close to the door,

the passenger door open, engine running;

got me in and belted, closed the door,

then ran around, jumped in, and threw up gravel.

I was in some kind of reverie.

I looked at everything intently, as if. . . .

I had never thought of it before.

As many times as I had driven down from

Meher Mount that nestled in the crook of

the 60th, and last, curve from the bottom,

out the gate I'd boldly climbed that day

some 48 years since, some day would be

(I'd never ever thought of it before)

the last, and I would never return more.

136. One Last Time

I saw the eucalyptus just as Baba

had so many years before, and took it

in with what small breath I could, enough

to get a faint, sweet fragrance, even as

I took the sky, the trees, the plants, the grass,

the road in with my eyes, though I could close them,

as I'd done so many times, a game

of memory I liked to play, and see

the 3-mile road play out before my eyes,

and count down every curve, each like an old,

dear friend, its number for a name, as I

could every oak that sheltered me beneath

its broad, majestic, leafy canopy;

and know precisely how fast I could take

each curve, and still keep all 4 wheels upon

the road, though Ken had taken many on

2 wheels, as now we reached the bottom, and

he flew the half-mile leading to 150,

made the squealing turn for Ojai, and

accelerated past the ripening walnuts.

Soon we heard the ambulance's siren,

saw its red-blue flashing lights as it

came quickly round the distant curve,

and Ken moved into its lane and then onto

the shoulder, flashing headlights, to a stop,

the ambulance fast pulling up in front.

Then Ken was quickly out and round the back

and opening my door, and soon the one

attendant-driver was there and assessing

me, and soon the other with the gurney,

which they quickly had me on, then in

the ambulance, the one administering

oxygen. Ken, always thinking, had

backed up so that the ambulance could make

a U-turn. And as we sped off I saw

that we had stopped directly opposite

the spiritually high Ojai Foundation,

and I flashed upon the New Life Center,

Baba's first place in the West that Jean,

the mandali, and I had then set out from,

almost 48 years to the day,

to look for a large place for Baba high

upon a mountain, two hours from the city.

_Such old scenes_ sped by, to my surprise

that everything so flashed before my eyes.

137. Emergency

At Emergency they danced attendance

on me, taking blood, and sticking things

in me, x-raying me, and hooking odd

machines up to me. And then everybody

left me, but a kind nurse; feeling I

was in good hands, at last I slept; then woke,

surprised to find that it was afternoon.

Soon after that a doctor came in, smiling.

"Hello, Agnes. You had quite a sleep.

I'm Dr. Rogers. We've looked at you pretty

thoroughly. We don't see anything

that gives us a concern. Your lungs seem normal.

Nothing is obstructing airflow; so

your problem breathing may be a reaction

of your nervous system. It may be

you just need rest. Your sleep has done you good.

For now, though, to be safe, we're going to keep you

on oxygen. It may make you a little

high. If you need to communicate,

here's pad and pen. Do you have any questions

for me?" I did not just then. He said

he'd check on me a little later, then left.

Ken came in. How glad I was to see him,

and to thank him with my eyes, my hands,

his own dear hands in mine, with all my heart,

in feeling we'd forever been apart,

.

He stayed with me the afternoon and early

evening; and then, feeling I was in

the best of care, said, "Agnes, I'll go home now,

and come back at noon with Len and Tom."

My hands let go, and then my eyes; but I

could not let go with all my heart, for wanting

so to always keep him close to me.

Then he was gone. And, as the night came on,

most everyone else, too, and it got quiet,

strangely peaceful. Dr. Rogers had

looked in on me again, and said that he

was confident, with further tests, they'd find

whatever it was ailing me, and put me

right. Like Lazarus, I saw, I'd rise up,

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses

_yearning to breathe free_." I'd know the feeling,

soon, of getting strength and breath back,

and embark, _at last_ , upon my New Life,

welcoming them all to Meher Mount.

And so I dreamed beyond the witching hour,

when I show up so well against the moon.

The clock said 1:10 A.M., JULY 3.

I so took heart: tomorrow it would say,

JULY 4, God-blest Independence Day.

138. A Vivid Dream

I don't remember I'd a waking thought

beyond that, much as if I wished to sleep

and dream upon that one. And I did dream,

the vividest dream ever I had dreamed:

I lay in sleep just as I then lay sleeping,

oxygen mask on my face, when I

was suddenly awakened by the feeling

of a presence in the room, and there

was Baba, as He looked on Meher Mount,

and beaming on me, as I looked, then, strong,

so full of young breath. In the distance, over

His left shoulder, high upon the Hill,

there rose the Baba Tree majestically

against the sky. He made no gesture, but I

read it in His eyes: "Beloved Watchdog,

I love you so much. You've kept your vow

through hellfire and damnation. I am waiting

for you, so that we can walk together,

hand in hand, one, to the Baba Tree

once more." Then He was gone, and most the purest

light suffused the room, and all was still,

and there was not a sound. Then I felt very

light, and I began to float above

my sleeping self, toward the ceiling that

I took for Heaven, such a bright, celestial

light was emanating from it. When I

looked down I did not perceive myself.

How very old and gaunt and frail I was.

The doctors needn't do more tests; there was

no curing 87 years of living,

the "thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to."

In that glimpse I saw that I would not

get youthful strength and breath back more. The dream

was over no witch doctor could redeem.

And yet I dreamed, a dream in which I floated

oh so much more lightly than I'd ever

floated high on coconuts to freedom;

free of body, free of gravity,

_young_ , free of worldly care, at perfect peace.

_The oxygen,_ I thought, _has made me high_ ;

so high I did not want the dream to end.

And so, as light in spirit as I was,

I moved the lighter, so as not to make

a movement or a sound to cause me to

awaken, and so end the dream, the high.

Toward this end, I kept on looking down

upon myself for any sign, so glad,

each time, of seeing none. And every time

I looked I marvelled yet the more that I

could lie so motionless in sleep so long,

not either to relieve a muscle that

had gone to sleep, or in emotional

response, as faithful watchdogs do, in dream.

And when I looked again I got the shock

of my life: all along I'd made a sign

I'd failed to recognize—and it was _something_

to think I could miss: I wasn't high

on oxygen—my dream was not a dream.

_I'd dropped the body_ no witch could redeem.

139. Independence Day

What struck me like a bolt of lightening

was just how opposite of sorrowful

I was, as one who feels a mighty burden

lifted from her shoulders feels not sadness,

grief, or pain, but lightness, joy, relief,

euphoria of feeling she can fly.

Escaping Devil's Island floating to

blest freedom on a bunch of coconuts

was as if I had not escaped at all,

compared to my escaping from the island

prison of my old and broken body,

floating on a heavenly bunch of ether.

Baba's coming to me in a dream

the day before our Independence Day,

to say that He was waiting there for me,

releasing me from human bondage, was

His sweetest, loving way of telling me,

more eloquently than His eyes could say,

" _Come, Agni_ , it's your independence day."

Ken, Len, and Tom, my guardian angels grieved

that they could not have guarded me from what

no loved one can be guarded from in time.

And Dr. Rogers sought to soften it with,

"Agnes died in her sleep peacefully.

There was no crisis, nothing we could see,

except that she was tired and wanted rest.

I've never said before, but I will now,

because I can't help feeling that with Agnes

it was true: God wanted her to be

with Him." And I so wanted to be, but

my love for those who loved me held me. There

would be the service, loving words, and the

goodbyes I never got to say, so many.

As so often happens, our life endings

are not neatly tied up with a bow.

And then my tears would fall, no not for me,

but loved ones left behind consumed with grief.

And Baba's name for me would then require

that _Agni_ must be so consumed: with fire.

140. Funeral Pyre

And now that time has come, and like the faithful

in St. Peter's Square who watch the chimney

of the Sistine Chapel for the white smoke,

signalling a new Pope has been chosen,

so I watch my funeral pyre, as I

so often had accepted witness of

Saint Joan of Arc tied to the stake, and watched

the flames rise up around her, and the smoke,

rejoicing with her when she'd won release.

And now I see a flame and smoke rise up

around me—God, yes! _This_ is it, what Baba

has, for all this time, been having me

save all but all of my almighty breath for

— _whoosh!_ Yes, see the flames and smoke engulf me!

Oh, but that was just a gentle zephyr.

Now, watch this one— _WHOOSH!_ Ha-ha! See how

the flames leap up and crackle—and the smoke!

Next it'll put on airs of being storm cloud.

And yet that was but a mild chinook,

comparatively whooshing. Brace yourself now

— _WHOOSH!_ Look, you can't even see me now

midst the inferno, even though, as winds go,

it was nothing but a mild sirocco.

Stand back. I don't want _you_ to get burned

now—WHOOSH! _Woo-hoo!_ Now that is what I call

a funeral pyre—just feel that heat! It's almost

as intense as is my burning love

for Baba. _Oh,_ _yes!_ I'm a ball of fire.

So _hold on!_ I'm now going to blow my strongest,

which you'll feel when I unleash its power

singing, _I Shall Be Released_ , rejoicing,

seeing that, in all the ecstasy

of fire and smoke and ashes, I am _free_.

141. Life Everlasting

And I am flying now to Meher Mount,

as I have never flown so high before;

not when in highest dudgeon on my broom;

not even as I flew up there with Baba,

high with the excitement of His seeing

it for the first time. _And now I'm here!_

once more—in record time—and looking on it,

as I've always looked on it, as Heaven,

Heaven, now, for real. Nor am I winded

in the least; in fact, I've breath to spare.

The glory is, pure spirit, I'm _all_ breath,

all thanks to Baba, who, I now see—it's

as clear as is my spirit—didn't have me

save my breath just for my funeral pyre;

his greater reason was for me to be

a witness, one who's lived to tell how painless,

sorrowless it is to drop the body;

that there's nothing in the world to fear;

how peaceful and how beautiful it is

to be pure spirit, ever one with His.

Soon they'll be coming with my ashes, yet warm,

in an urn. In joyous ceremony

they will scatter them along the path

up to the Baba Tree, where they will lie,

until, as Baba promised, He returns.

His feet that gently walked on water once

shall touch my ashes yet more tenderly,

more sweetly; they'll awake to feel their kiss,

and I'll arise, in super-bloom, the phoenix,

and together, hand in hand, once more

we'll walk the verdant path to Baba's Tree,

our feet rejoicing, reunited vagrants,

new releasing the long-pent-up fragrance

of the blessed Meher Mount–wide staple

so redolent of butterscotch and maple,

which, to one long spiritually fasting,

smells, and is, so sweet: life everlasting.

Acknowledgments

Elizabeth Arnold, for graciously playing for me a video of Agnes speaking about her life with Meher Baba, and the forty-six years of "hellfire and damnation" she went through in hanging onto Meher Mount for him; also, for lending me a different audio tape of her on the same topics, both of which together gave me a good sense of her fiery character, and brought to light many of the incidents and people in her life, on which I was able to begin constructing a narrative;

Elena Jarvis for her excellent 1999 capsule biography of Agnes in the Ventura County Star entitled _The Witch of Sulphur Mountain_ , from which I gleaned much more to build upon, not least the title.

Margaret Magnus and Sam Ervin who, in knowing Agnes, were able and no less willing to generously give of their time to share their knowledge and insights, even going so far as to provide me with a copy of the passenger list for the SS _Exeter_ , by which ship Agnes returned from Europe on May 28, 1941, putting to rest the mistaken notion of her returning in 1938; for putting me in touch with others who knew her and of her; and for kindly granting me permission to use personal photos of Agnes, as well as others from the Meher Mount archives.

David Fenster for very kindly sending me three audio tapes of Agnes, which he recorded during her 1982 trip to India, which proved invaluable; and for his no less valued information regarding period photos.

Wendell Brustman and son Tom for conceiving and producing the DVD _The Beloved's Watchdog: Agnes Baron Remembers Her Life With Meher Baba_ ;

Ken Ceder who, together with his brother Len, and later Tom Entwistle, provided 24-hour care for Agnes for the remaining five years of her life, and of which experiences Ken wrote so candidly, inspiring in me the narrative for the close of her life.

Duncan Knowles for putting me in touch with David Pastor;

Meher Mount website for its treasure trove of articles and photos;

With sincere gratitude,

David Madison

Author

Canadian by birth, expatriate by climate, David Madison is an inveterate idyller who idylls his time away writing idylls, that is, narrative poems, especially longer ones, such as **The Witch of Sulphur Mountain: The Supernatural Life of Agnes Baron, Meher Baba's Beloved Watchdog**.

And yet, as if being an inveterate idyller were not enough to recommend him to you, he is also a tireless fabulist, meaning, a **fabulous** writer. But if you've had the novel pleasure of reading his first published book, **Ms. Spinster's Novel Grammar: More Novel Yet Her Punctation, Spelling, Style . . .** , you already know that. Each of the 330 tales illustrating a rule is written in the manner of a **fable** , "a short narrative making an edifying or cautionary point, often employing as characters _animals_ that speak and act like humans." He is a permanent resident of Belize, which, being situated below Mexico on the Caribbean Sea, is fabulous in its own right. But one look at a map will undeceive you: it is nowhere near as fabulous as he is. When he's not being fabulous, in one sense, he spends the remainder of his waking hours answering the question _What qualifies you to write a grammar book?_ His ready answer, marvelous for its concision, is that he has some five more years of school learning than Mark Twain, and far fewer cats. While those two seeming disqualifications are sinking in, he is quick to emphasize that he correctly said far _fewer_ , not far less cats.

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 David Madison

Smashwords Edition

Written by David Madison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy excerpts for classroom use, or others who would like to obtain permission, should send their inquiries to the publisher at dmadison@spinlady.net . Scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. Thank you for respecting the author's rights.

David Madison

P.O Box 257

San Ignacio, Belize

Central America

dmadison@spinlady.net

