A True Hero - Forget Him Not

Not everything is as it seems, and as a Keeper of Secrets I know this much better than most.

Before I share the next story of the dead allow me to delve a little into the world of secrets, and why certain things should never come to “Light”.

First allow me to introduce you to “Light”, a word that is actually a symbol, with a meaning that would seem to have an opposite, dark. But the “Light” we are talking about has NO OPPOSITE, its impossible. Even the label of “Light” causes one to assume there is an opposite, its the way we roll.

Light versus dark, cold versus hot, east versus west, on and on we go creating opposites. As a Keeper of Secrets I do not necessarily see the way you do, by transcending dualism, the world of opposites, death and life are now. Light allows me to see even in what you perceive to be dark, my ears hear clearly, my eyes see clearly, and I feel clearly what you perceive to be dead. There is no death.

“Death is a stripping away of all that is not you. The secret of life is to "die before you die" --- and find that there is no death.”...The Power of Now

Now allow me share with you the story of Stephen Wentworth, a young man that should not be forgotten.

Every grave tells its own story, and not all stories are filled with sugar and spice.

As is the story of Stephen Wentworth, a very young Lieutenant, Gilmore Medal winner, and forgotten hero who is buried in Forest Glade Cemetery, a soldier that holds no bitterness towards those that forgot him.

I first came upon the grave of Lieut. Wentworth very early in my wanderings. The sadness I felt that very first encounter still remains within my being.

Stephen's Own Words - As Received by Obadiah Storm

Although I consider myself a man of little words, I feel compelled as of late to articulate the sorrow I feel for the many losses the families of my fallen comrades have endured,

My family, like many of those of my fallen comrades after me, sadly endured the loneliness of burying one of their own without the usual pomp and ceremony accorded those who fell early in the war between the States, a time when the body of the fallen hero was escorted by color guards, Mounted Marshal’s, and a town of mourner’s. By the time of my death the war had taken its toll, the people of Somersworth no longer found the burial of a fallen soldier a solemn event.

How soon they forget.

Yet I hold no bitterness, just sadness, a sadness reserved for my parents, a loving couple that bore the loneliness of burying a child two months before his twenty first birthday, a hero in their eyes, and yet just another loss in the eyes of a war weary community.

I will speak no longer of the events of my burial; suffice to say it was a sad day for my family.

As to the events of my death, one link of the chain leads to the next, the end of the chain coming in Deep Bottom.

Two months before my death I was wounded in the Battle of Cold Harbor. It was at this time I felt the deep premonition of impending doom enter my bones; the date was the 6th of June, 1864. The trenches were hot, dusty, and miserable, but conditions were worse between the lines, where thousands of wounded Federal soldiers suffered horribly without food, water, or medical assistance, Hell was on earth, and cries filled the air.

Our General, Grant, was reluctant to ask for a formal truce that would allow him to recover his wounded because that would be a signal he had lost the battle. He and Lee traded notes across the lines without coming to an agreement, and when Grant formally requested a two-hour cessation of hostilities, it was too late for most of the unfortunate wounded, who were now bloated corpses. On June 4, Grant tightened his lines by moving Burnside's corps behind Matadequin Creek as a reserve and moving Warren leftward to connect with Smith, shortening his lines about 3 miles. On June 6, Early probed Burnside's new position but could not advance through the impassable swamps. It was during this time I was wounded.

Although not serious enough to return to the rear, the battle was over for me, and a lot of my fallen brothers.

The Battle of Cold Harbor was a victory for Lee's army, and doom entered my mind.

My young body would heal rapidly, yet I could not shake the feeling that bad things were just around the corner, and I was right.

August 13th, 1864 we had arrived “North of the James”, it was here between the James River and Malvern Hill we were sent to engage a rebel defensive position protecting Richmond.

A shiver raised every hair on my body as I looked over the map; the place was called Deep Bottom, adjacent to a river and another southern swamp.

After a sleepless night of nerves and chills we made our way to the rear of the rebel stronghold, a flanking strategy General Grant would become famous for. At nightfall, without rest, we were ordered to relieve Gregg’s Calvary on one of the main roads to Richmond.

We didn’t stand a chance; the rebel sharpshooter’s pinned us down, and riddled us to death.

How I got home was a courtesy from my enemy, a few days after that fatal day the rebels returned my body to the Union, in an exchange only a warrior would understand.

Here I lay now a forgotten hero.

A small note from Obadiah: On the day Stephen Wentworth died 1,844 Union soldiers were killed, 9,077 were wounded, and 1.816 was missing or captured. That is 12,737, almost the same population as Somersworth today.

The Dead Do Talk - And I Hear Them

It's very rare, very rare indeed when I'm allowed to share with you the insight of a spirit that deserves to be heard. It's not that the stories of the others are of least importance, if truth be told all have a depth of insight rarely encountered in the world of the living, but some just penetrate deep into your soul, resonating with the depth of your being, as you well surely see.

As a Historian of the Dead, and a Keeper of Secrets, attached to a section of New Hampshire that contains a sort of door that allows one if properly trained, to cross into a dimension where the dead can, will, and often communicate that which they feel must be revealed, I found myself upon this dimension just the other eve when I came across and aberration I have seen many times before but had been unable to contact. Sometimes communication has to unfold when the time is just right.

I am under no illusion that most will find what was shared with me that night confusing, or beyond belief, but it is not up to me to justify my abilities or belief system. You may believe the dead are gone, poof, no more, but I assure you just because your senses do not allow heightened experience don't think for a minute that all perceive the reality with limited senses.

Enough of an introduction, now the story, true to what I intuit. For those that would like to respectfully view the grave of Abel Stacy, he is located in the center of the Forest Glade Cemetery in Somersworth.

Who was Abel Stacy, and what secrets did he take to the grave?

In my experience with the dead, rarely does my awake consciousness allow me to talk with the departed, yet for some reason Abel allowed me direct access, although not verbally, to his train of thought.

Abel Stacy died in Somersworth 30 January 1879 and is buried in Forest Glade Cemetery.

During his life amongst the living Abel practiced Botanical Medicine, an alchemist of sorts, a “Keeper of Secrets”.

I had seen the ghostly Abel many times during my nightly forays to Forest Glade, yet he always appeared at the edge of the cemetery grounds and seemed to have little interest in my presence. I sensed he was more curious with his surroundings than the presence of a living entity walking amongst the dead.

Many times I would see his energy silhouette exploring the many plants, shrubs, and trees that bordered the burial ground, occasionally looking my way as if acknowledging my presence, than resuming his foraging.

Early one morning, close to Dead Time, when the veil between the dead and living is the thinnest, I observed Abel exploring a newly delivered planting that had been placed on the grave of a recent interment.

At this time I saw something I had never witnessed before, Abel seemed to be picking flowers from bouquet, an impossible task for one existing in another dimension, yet there in his hands were the colorful vibrating energy auras of the flowers, and yet, the actual flowers were still in the bouquet. It was as if Abel brought forth the essence of the flowers into the world of the dead, an alchemical transmutation.

As I stood visibly puzzled, I could hear Abel say “Don’t look so surprised my friend, there are many mysteries that are yet to be revealed, and one is the healing power of the flowers I hold within my hand.”

Although I spoke not a word with my tongue, I found myself communicating with a spirit that seemed receptive to my none verbal questions.

“Those flowers you hold in your hand or flowers in particular?” I asked.

“Depending on your condition.” he mentally responded.

Next he began explain how the energy contained within the flowers could work with the energy within our own bodies to bring about desired change.

“First you must understand that many diseases already exist within your body, they just have not manifested themselves yet. If it’s not bacterial, viral, or parasitic, all disease needs to manifest itself is the proper conditions and environment. In essence, the disease is already there just waiting for all the conditions necessary to bring it forth.”

I clarified what he said to see if I understood what he meant, “What your saying is, every disease already exists in a state of potentiality, and only arises when conditions allow it to raise its head.”

“Potentiality sounds about right, I call it the Field of God,” he responded gently, “a place where everything exists and only becomes visible when everything falls in place for it to arise.”

“In life,” he continued, “I attempted to cure the ill and informed through the use of botanical preparations, relying on the medicinal quality of certain plants to aid the body in curing itself.”

“A physician of sorts” I responded.

“Not in the traditional sense. My way was to find the best way for the body to heal itself, to reverse the conditions that allowed the disease to surface, as you may say, there by allowing the potentiality of health to arise. Most physicians, in my time amongst you, believed in the use of apothecaries and chemical preparations formulated to kill unwanted conditions, often using barbaric techniques to eradicate disease from the body with unwanted side effects. I used the bodies own vibration, magnetic, and energy system to return the body to its natural balance by using nature to heal nature.”

“What did you mean by Field of God?” I asked.

“Everything that will ever exist, including life, disease, death, and the future already exists, everything is already present, its just waiting for the proper conditions to manifest on the plane of what you call the living. Change is inevitable, impermanence is fact, and everything is either coming into or going out of existence, in and out of what I call the Field of God. I am dead, a fact I know, yet some day when the conditions are aligned I’ll be back. You are alive, yet some day you’ll be dead, but fear not everything recycles in the Field of God.”

“Time to go for now, the moon wanes,” he said as he seemed to disappear in the Field of God, “see you again my friend.”

I knew exactly what he meant.