Surrounded by incredible song and caught up in a rush of devotion, many stood while I seemed to be almost upside down. Others were caught up in what was now a forceful sound above me as my body had voluntarily bent in two, with an intensity that weighted my head to the ground. On my knees, I could not go any lower but if I could have stuck my head through the ground I would have because what was pulling me was coming from below the surface. The pressure on my forehead felt like it might burst the blood vessels in my temples. 

It was as if hands and voices were clambering for my attention and had grabbed my consciousness in their one chance to cause an ear to hear what they had to say. My ears grew hot and it was all I could do to place each ear flat to the ground alternately and listen whilst an impartation of painful truths took place. Being on the receiving end caused such a wrenching groan as I was told of a crushing tale and of the blood spilt that was keeping this story alive…. I could see fires lit up and down the land burning freely, a story of an indigenous land alight with truth. Ignition was taking place rapidly increasing the light and warmth until the nation was covered.
Then I watched as an imported order came across the sea exerting its power with an influence that looked like a blanket layer being thrown over the land. At first the fires spat and kept burning but the layers just kept coming forming a superficial surface that was so thick it began to look like dough. Slowly all the fires were put out, smothered by the pastry-like substance and buried beneath its weight. For all those who died in this disaster seeking to keep the fires alight, it was like being buried alive and their blood still cried out for justice. True martyr blood can be buried but not got rid of. It remains in the ground calling for the truth to out, waiting for such a time when the fire starts to burn through the ‘pillsbury’ coating that deadened everything.

I looked down on this ‘dough-covered’ landmass draped in apathy; a cloggy ceiling on life, quenching spirituality. Compared to other lands where there is a spiritual ‘buzz’ of activity embracing a concoction of faith, this was just a nothingness like a spiritual vacuum.
Staring at the floury stodge I began to notice a black mark appear. It started as a dot but emanated from there into a dark circle right where London should be. The blackened area began to harden and crack, the scorched surface then peeled back as flames licked through what was now a hole.

With my head still to the ground, this history lesson was all I knew of the original war for Christianity in these islands; the words ‘Celt’ and ‘Roman’ were new to me as I stood up unable to stop muttering them. Now, seventeen years since that encounter much has been in motion behind the scenes. Maybe now it is time for a dark patch to appear over ‘all consuming’ London, as an indigenous fire burns a hole right through the layers of control, some of which are at least 17 centuries old.
The blood of martyrs has a song and it is of redemption and forgiveness…the song of the lamb. They are singing with a quiver of excitment in their voice as this is their time to be justified.
Their sound above ground…. unleashing a wild fire that cannot be contained, harnessed or quenched.