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Prophecy Seekers Overview 


Identical twin brothers Thomas and Joshua are hell-bent to determine whether a Hopi prophecy about four sacred stones is true or not. It is prophesized that a sacred stone was hidden in the Far East and if reunited with the sacred stone in North America it will mark the arrival of the Second Messiah. It takes the brothers far away to Burma where Thomas discovers clues left behind by an early Protestant missionary from Pennsylvania.

After finding Louis Riels' personal journals through Riel's grandson, the twins use their knowledge of Native American religious beliefs to begin an odyssey on the train past Mandalay and the officer's club where George Orwell drank his oily gin beside the Allywaddy River in the 1920s, to the far reaches in north in Burma. A prophecy thousands of years old is protected by guardians of the sacred stone, but resourcefulness and timing lay with the Métis twins from Canada.

Factually accurate and well-researched, Prophecy Seekers takes the reader deep into old Native beliefs and connections to the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel, reaching as far as northern Burma and the Kachin tribe, said to be the source of the migration to the Americas centuries before. The Hopi Indians, holders of the ancient prophecies, were the focus of Remy McFlynn for many years when he studied under a medicine man in Canada. His knowledge and passion for Native culture shine through in the book and rubbed off on Trapp, who wrote the book while living in Hong Kong.

Based on an extraordinary journey to northern Burma, some scenes are so vivid that it transports the reader to different vistas, from Geroge Orwell's officer's club to the encounter with the Colonel on the train and even the meeting with Louis Riel's grandson, novel has captured something special. But the most memorable aspect of the book is the ending, when the phoenix burns into ash. Seldom has a passage of such objectivity and clarity been recorded during a brush with death.     


Chapter Ten

The Lost Louis Riel Notebooks


A dog with the coloring of a painted horse barked when they entered Robert Riel's three-story Victorian house, but it was quickly silenced with one firm word from Robert. Behind the tamed dog a woman stood in a long flowing robe, her hair long and golden, and her cheekbones carved out of marble.

"Honey," said Robert with a slight slur. "Meet our Métis brethren: the Robertson twins. Joshua and Thomas." Despite his drunkenness, Thomas became all thumbs in the face of her beauty.

"Guys, this is my wife Chlöe."

"Hi Chlöe," said Josh, smooth as maple syrup.

"A pleasure to meet you," Thomas stumbled in a weak voice. He should have been more embarrassed but the booze had shut down his faculty of embarrassment. But Josh, being his identical twin, shook his head to help cover up the faux pas.

"Don't worry. He's always been like that," he added to fill in the silence. "He turns to mush when in the presence of striking beauty." He put his hand on Thomas's shoulder. "He'll be okay." It was true though; profound beauty always stunned him. He was apt to give those with symmetrical beauty the full halo effect.

"Striking beauty, yes," said Robert, taking it all in. "Interesting to see identical twins work together like that." He gave Chlöe a kiss in the hallway.

"It's nice to see some new faces. Come in. It's chilly tonight," she said, voice sultry in her semi nakedness. "Would you like something to eat? Or is it drink you're after?" It was dark in the corridor but Thomas saw her wink.

"We're going to retire into the library, honey," said the dutiful husband.

"The nighthawk owns the shadows, as they say," she replied.

"You see, we're researching the Pahana prophecy tonight. These Métis identical twins are keen on it too." That changed her; the sleepiness left her face and she gave them an approving look, as if they really were nobility.

"I'll turn up the heat, and then I'm going to make something to eat. You need food to sustain you if you're going to be burrowed in that mammoth library. If not, Robert will have it tomorrow. Right sweetheart?" 

"Honey, what would I do without you?" Giving her another peck, he led them to the library. With its eerie high ceilings and spacious corridors with powder rooms and garbage shoots and stairwells leading to rooms unknown, the carpet was worn thin but the home had a lived-in feel that was comforting to the weariness in his bones. He passed a portrait of Louis Riel in the hallway, an image neither of then had ever seen before.

The library was covered with a forest of books and papers and bound notebooks and clusters of lamps and pencils and paperclips.

"I was expecting a small room with a few books, not a real library with ladders," said Thomas in sheer gratitude for the treasure that was before them. It was clear Robert Riel was as serious as anyone about his heritage and about researching North American prophecies.

"Nice one," said Josh, really biting into it. Like a true Métis, he was pleased with comments showing respect. 

"The room is a bit drafty at night so I'm stepping to the kitchen to get some brandy. It helps keep the hearth warm." Before he left, he placed a pile of bound journals on a big table in the middle of the room. "This will get you started. They have marked passages all concerning the Second Coming of the Messiah." He strolled out of the library, leaving them speechless. There was nothing to say so they flipped through the handwritten journals of Canada's hero.

Robert returned with a tray of three brandy glasses and an unopened bottle.

"This is where I spend most of my time when I'm not out carousing, so let me welcome you to my little sanctuary. There's no fireplace but trust me: it will warm up nicely." He poured large glassfuls of brandy.

"I'll assume you have a basic understanding of the story of the Pahana," he said. Thomas doesn't so he looked to Josh to reply.

"It's basically a story of one of the Pahana twins finding a sacred tablet in the East, returning it here to Turtle Island and saving mankind," said Josh, to establish a base.

"Yes," he replied, glass in hand and wind in his sails. "But let me read this summary to you. I wrote it after months of combing through my grandfather's notes and needed to clarify exactly what it was that I knew." They put down the notebooks and lifted their glasses with zealous curiosity. Robert read from some papers:

"It is said in the Hopi ancient records, kept by the tribe assigned to keep the prophecies of the Red Man, that a messenger will arrive with the sacred stone from the East bringing with him words that will heal the broken spirits of mankind.

"It is said that The Book of Life will be the medicine for what ills Mother Earth during Koyaanisqatsi - when the world is out of balance during the Seventh Stage of Man.

"It is said that this divine wisdom would come at the beginning of time before the Tower of Babel.

"It is said that tribal leaders throughout Turtle Island were charged with knowing the Hopi Prophecies and understanding these ancient instructions.

"It is said that he who finds the Taponi Tablets will unite the four races of mankind.

"It is said that the Pahana will be of pure heart and will be given the ability to decipher the Taponi Tablets in its full meaning. 

"It is said that the coming of the Pahana will set the four forces of Mesa (nature) in motion for the benefit of the sun.

"It is said that the Great Purification will be a time of the rising of the Phoenix when the old world clears away the old clutter to allow for new growth to restore the natural cycles of the planet.

"It is said that the Pahana will awaken the consciousness of all good-hearted people who will then collectively raise the sum of positive sentience affecting all peoples around the world.

"It is said that the stone tablets are the symbol of power and authority over all land and life to protect, guard and hold in trust until the Creator returns for them.

"It is said the Day of Purification will come when the Blue Star Kachina makes its appearance in the heavens.

"It is said that when the elder twin brother returns with the sacred stone and places it beside the other stone, that justice will descend on all those with a true spirit and will be awakened."

Robert Riel stopped reading, cleared his throat, promptly followed by a sip of brandy. Thomas's head spins with new pieces to the puzzle, trying to process and digest it all.

"Pure heart," said Josh. "I've thought about that and have come to the conclusion that only those without guile have a good heart."

"What about the brothers? Do you have anything about the brothers, like what they looked like or anything?"

"Let me see here... Ah, here. Okay." He gave them a nod before speaking.

"It is said that the two brothers are the sons of the Creator who are consigned by Fate to fulfill this final task of reuniting the ancient Taponi Tablets.

"It is said that after the elder brother has journeyed to the East, he is to return upon hearing the call from his younger brother.

"It is said that the elder brother will have light skin and dark hair and dress in red, and that he will be given the skills to decipher the tablets of its true meaning.

"It is said that he who dreams of the sacred story will be shown the way to the buried sacred tablet that contains the healing words of the Creator. 

"It is said that the elder brother will transform into the Pahana when he returns with the sacred stone to Turtle Island, and will bring with him a new life plan that will lead to everlasting life."

He could feel Josh looking at him. He who dreams of the sacred story will be shown the way to the buried sacred tablet. When he recalled Grandfather's words describing the sketch as the sacred story, Thomas felt a fire burning on his forehead where the skin had been cut. But even more than this, it was the elder brother returning with the tablet from the East who will transform into the Pahana. That couldn't be right. He could sense Joshua's exasperation when he glanced at him with a solemn look. Robert Riel noticed.

"Sacred story?" Josh said. "What do you know about that?"

"I have looked for something about the sacred story but haven't seen a thing that refers to it explicitly. Why? What is it?"

Thomas took the sketch out of his pocket and unfolded it on the table in front of him.

"This morning Tommy told me of a dream he had last night and he sketched out on paper. It has Kokopelli and a ladder going behind the sun so we brought it to Grandfather who told us a lot more." Studying the sketch, Robert Riel's eyes widened.

"Is this it?"

"He said that he had seen this sketch before and referred to it as ‘the sacred story.'" Face red as if fire was engulfing him, all the heat focused in the welt on Thomas's forehead.

"The ladder goes to the House of God behind the sun," said the grandson of Louis Riel. "And this star overhead could be the Blue Star Kachina that is prophesized."

"And the steps on the conduit ladder to heaven are swirls moving upwards to the sun in what looks like a Fibinacci Sequence," added Josh, pointing at the ladder reaching behind the sun.

"That's where the empyrean is."

"Empy what?"

"Empyrean is the ‘heaven of heavens' where our ancestor spirits live."

"What sticks with me most from the dream was reaching out to the long straight line and getting a shock. I actually saw a spark. I actually felt the electricity. It was what had jolted me awake." Josh rubbed the welt on his forehead and grinned at his brother.

"Any idea what that could mean?" Robert Riel pulled at his moustache and poured himself another brandy.

"This may sound crazy, but I'm thinking that it symbolizes the way to the tablet in the East," said Josh.


"I think Tommy's dream was the telling of this sacred story. The sketch is a story. And if you were to follow that line straight all the way, where would you end up?" Joshua's finger followed the line coming down from the sun. "You would go through the earth to the other side of the world to somewhere in the Far East like China." Thomas was busy nibbling his bottom lip.

"Yes! That's what I'm thinking, except not China but Tibet." Both the brothers looked at him with eyes wide open.

"Tibet!" they said in unison.

"Sure. Tibet has a long and interesting history with many connections to the Red Man of Turtle Island."

"Isn't it the home of the Yellow Race?"

"It is," he replied, nodding at Josh. "Did you know that the Hopi word for love is the Tibetan word for hate? And that the Hopi word for hate is the Tibetan word for love? Or that the Tibetan word for sun is the Hopi word for moon, and the Hopi word for sun is the Tibetan word for moon?"

"How-" Josh didn't bother asking the question because he knew this man had studied.

"It is written that each of the four races of man originally had a sacred stone tablet. The Black Race had their tablet in Kilamanjaro kept by the Kukuyu Tribe but it was lost. The tablet held by the White Race was kept in Switzerland but it was destroyed in the wars of Europe. Only the tablet kept by the Yellow Race exists besides the one held by the Red Men in the Hopi compound where Arizona, New Mexico, Utah and Wyoming meet." He broke off for a moment trying to focus his recollection. "My grandfather believed that the tablet was in a monastery somewhere in Tibet guarded by monks." He walked over to a round globe on the table and located Tibet.

"See? It's way up in the Himalayas, isolated from the wars of man and likely buried in an old monastery built like a castle."

"But the Dalai Lama left Tibet when the Chinese invaded in 1950s," said Thomas.

"Yes. The Dalai Lama would likely be aware of the prophecy but he doesn't even live in Tibet anymore. He lives in India."

"So, the Chinese have it?" asked Josh, refilling each glass to keep them warm against the winds of the prairies howling at the leaded windowpanes.

"Wait, I seem to recall something in one of old Louis's notebooks about possible connections between Tibet and other areas where there is believed to be remnants of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel." He searched from a row of about fifty yellowed notebooks on bookshelves that lined the wall.

"Ah! Here!" He opened to a page marked with a bookmark. "He has a map in here with some of his thoughts on the location of the tablet in Tibet. If I'm right, I seem to recall something about northern Burma." He rubbed his moustache with vigor.

"Burma?" Josh grunted in a skeptical tone of voice. Robert Riel placed the open notebook on the table, and pointed to the map where Louis had circled a monastery and written the name of a tribe named Manashe.

"It says here that the Burmese tribe of Manashe is from the tribe of Manasseh, one of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel. These mountain people call themselves Lusi, which means the Ten Tribe. Lu means tribe, and Si means ten." Thomas could see a red line pointing overland to an area wedged between northern India and southwestern China in the mountains of northern Burma.

"Oh yeah, I remember now," said Robert Riel. "This is eerie. The Hopi Indians have something they call a Kachin Doll, similar to the Blue Star Kachina. So my grandfather looked up the words:

Kachin of Tibeto-Burmese origin; the lingua franca of Burma; the language of the Chingpaw people; and the language of the Tibetans.

Kachina a deified ancestral spirit believed among Hopis, [from Hopi qacina supernatural].


What he found was that there is a Kachin State in northern Burma and Kachin peoples. He thought they may be part of this Manashe tribe and connected in some way to the Hopi Indians.

"A connection to northern Burma?" said Josh. "It's reaching a bit don't you think?" But despite it's obvious unlikeliness, something about northern Burma tweaked Thomas's curiosity. There were too many connections to simply discount.

"It's not that far-fetched when you think about it," said Robert Riel as a rebuttal. "There are two theories about the origin of Native American Indians. Either they came in boats from Jerusalem after the Diaspora in 683BC as part of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel, as the Mormons believe, and are descendents of the Lammanites and Nephites. Or they came from Asia via the Bering land bridge. But to me the Red Man doesn't look at all Chinese - their noses are too long and aquiline and they're simply so much bigger."

"The Bering Strait Theory has fallen into disrepute after finding Kennewick Man in Washington State. It's pretty much been debunked."

"So they could be from a root of the remnants from the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel that landed in the area of northern Burma and northern India. Who knows? Records have been lost and peoples displaced, but maybe Kachins still have a resemblance to Indians here?" I'm still busy biting my lip.

"Manashe. That's really quite a coincidence," said Thomas. "It even sounds like Manasseh. And it happens to be the one tribe of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel most associated with the settlement of the United States. The emblem on their shields according to the Bible was olive branches." All three of them were now shaking their heads in disbelief. It was Robert Riel who offers a toast.

"To the most sacred mission of the Métis: bringing the sacred Taponi Tablet back from the East to heal the hearts of man that have been led astray."

"And to fulfill the prophecy of the Second Coming of the Messiah," said Josh. Thomas raised his glass, feeling a new bond develop, not just between he and Josh but also with the grandson of the man who was the first leader of the Red-and-White Man in history.

Finding Orwell


Roosters trumpeted their bugle call and the Burmese stirred from under their thick blankets as the glimmer of light slowly conquered the black of night merging into a light orange hue. No one escaped the baritone bark of the station master as he yelled to the sleepers on the platform to get up because he had to sweep the accumulated debris of betel juice and cigarette butts onto the tracks. Women gathered in groups combing their hair and applied yellow powder to their faces while men smoked cheroots and popped their first betel nut of the day. Monks arranged their robes and packed their bundles as teenagers hustled in bags of rice from a truck outside the station entrance to a place beside the tracks, bringing with them a baptismal energy that ushered in the new day.

Soon rolling ahead deeper into the mountains, the terrain was steep but dense with jungle. Massive teak trees reached to the sky sticking out of the thick foliage, a world cut off from man, enclosing the colonial relic in its arms.

Knowing this was the same route George Orwell took to Katha over eighty years ago, Thomas opened Burmese Days again to read more about his life in Upper Burma. Having not noticed before, there was a map included in the Introduction to the book that Orwell apparently sketched on a napkin and gave to his publisher. A rough sketch that showed the colonial compound where he drank oily gin at the officers club that to most readers meant nothing, for Thomas so close to Katha it became a challenge to find out exactly where he spent his nights writing and exchanging stories with his fellow police officers.

Thomas was still studying Orwell's map when the train arrived at Naba station. Happy to be off the train after twenty hours, he thought the fat man should have reserved two seats because of his girth.

Nothing had changed at Naba train station since the British left. Inside the brick office there was a telephone with the winding arm, a Morse code device, and a World War Two-style radio that was still used. Even the handheld railway flags used to communicate with incoming and passing trains still hung folded on the wall above the radio and a Chubb London safe. Burmese sauntered in and out of the ticket office wrapped in their blankets like ancient Hebrews.

Once he found the right truck to Katha, which is an hour away, Thomas shook the fat man's hand and climbed aboard the back of the overloaded truck, the sun coming up from behind the teak-treed mountains. Standing on mounds of luggage with a dozen other people who stared at him, the hour commute to Katha was downright fun ducking tree branches and overhead telephone lines and gingerly crossing broken bridges that creaked with the weight of the truck. It was a pleasure to stretch out his legs as they barrelled through washouts and thick jungle in a fifty-year old truck jam-packed with standing passengers. He took out his baggie of betel nut, offered one to the toothless man beside him, and popped one into his mouth.

Katha was a sleepy little village with few people and no foreigners to be seen anywhere. In the center of town he bought more betel nut at the local betel nut stand where he shared a laugh when he chose the condiments by pointing. The half-dozen men refrained from an unfriendly word that usually followed a transaction like this when in China. The smell of sun-dried orchids made it all surreal somehow in the comfortable haze of betel juice. Just to play out the scene Thomas popped a betel nut there in front of the boys, which seemed to establish the coolness of the new foreigner to return to Orwell's Kyauktada. (Orwell's publisher told him he had to change the town name Katha to Kyauktada because some characters in the book were still living and in power in Burma). In total he spent six years in Burma, but it was Katha where he set his story of expatriate loneliness and the pangs of living where reason was impossible. Throwing his backpack over his shoulder in a somewhat dramatic fashion, he mock-saluted the betel nut boys and then followed his nose to the river where the guesthouses were.

Essentially cut off from the world and only accessible by riverboat, the truck ride alone ensured its isolation from the world, allowing it to nurture its colonial inheritance and thrive untouched by the headaches of modernity. When he reached the Irrawaddy River where there only two guesthouses, he chose to stay at a real colonial relic. When he saw his room he had no idea how he would be able to sleep in a room with a centimeter of pure dust on the windowsills. But it didn't matter; he only needed a place to throw his stuff and shower. With this done, he left with his map in hand and then made finding transportation his first task.

He went to a cluster of bicycle taxis at the river's edge hoping to find a driver who spoke English but there were no riders around, so he approached a bystander and pointed to the bikes and gestured ‘where are they?' The bystander pointed to a café on the river. Inside the café that had a strong odor of garlic, dried fish, dust and sweat, he asked a man if he rode one of the bikes outside by pointing. Answering in the affirmative, Thomas pulled out his compass to get his bearings and they left down the road along the river.

Sitting in the sidecar, he looked at the map from tablet 33 and confirmed that he was searching for a Christian church near a large pagoda beside the river. Following the Irrawaddy along a road that was a blend concrete and dirt, within minutes the cyclist was sweating heavily. Popping a betel nut, he offered his rider a nut for good measure. Surprised a foreigner chewed, he accepted it and warmed to him as he slipped on his sunglasses and enjoyed the scenery. There was something soft about Katha, different than Mandalay and Rangoon, a sort of karma or feng sui that had an effect on the townsfolk. Shouts of "Hello" were in a kinder tone and lacked any malice or hostility that usually underpinned greetings in other Asian towns. The children were happy, not desperate. There was space on the streets to play and talk unlike the narrow avenues of Rangoon or the crowded side streets of Mandalay. Both the men and women were wired on tea and betel nut so that there was a serendipitous energy that he felt as he explored Orwell's old haunt. With its avenue shops and colonial buildings left untouched under drooping trees, the crush of the wrecking ball had missed Katha much to its advantage. Kids played netless badminton at the side of the road, waving at Thomas as he passed.

Finally, around a bend in the river, there was a huge yellow pagoda surrounded by colonial buildings in a compound walled-in by a stone fence. It was the pagoda that caused him to clue in that it was the same pagoda on the map. Visually, the entire layout fit proportionally with the small map in his hand but he didn't see a church. Matching the lines on the map to the buildings surrounding the big gold pagoda, Thomas experienced the same tingling sensation as he had in Mandalay: part thrill and part sheer intensity. But was also like a déjà vu. He paid the bike-taxi man and walked towards the open field that looked like an old enclosed park.

An old jail fifty yards away with guards patrolling wooden lookout towers perched on the four corners of a huge wall was beautiful to the eye but increased his paranoia of being watched. The map was old enough to predate at least two roads between the central pagoda and the far end of the old walled-in compound near some quaint colonial homes, and it didn't include the jail. He explored until his feet ached but still he couldn't see a church so he sat at the foot of the pagoda and wondered if there might be a place up river that had a church. Enjoying the layout and architecture of the buildings in the compound, Thomas was just about to get a taxi to go down river to look for the church when he experienced another déjà vu but this time he knew why: this was George Orwell's old haunt!

Thomas flipped through Burmese Days to the map. It had the same lines as the map from the sacred tablet monastery in Mandalay except the colonial buildings were labeled as well as the jail. Then it occurred to him that there was a jail in Orwell's novel.

"It can't be," he said into the wind.

In front of him was the fenced-in old colonial courtyard where the novel took place. According to the map Orwell sketched on a napkin, one of the official looking colonial buildings along the waterfront was the police officer's club where Orwell drank his oily gin. It was a yellow two-story number with wooden shutters and a flagpole base that still had a British wreath. Climbing up the weathered stone steps, the monks squatting there let Thomas peek into the club. The floors, walls and ceiling were hardwood and the riverside wall had huge windows overlooking the water, so it was easy to imagine Orwell and the boys lazing with their gin fizzes in the afternoon breeze. The bar surrounded the north wall with a concave epicenter where the bottles of whiskey and brandy no doubt were parked. It was if he had stepped back eighty years to British India.

"In any town in India," Orwell had written on page 14 in the novel, "the European Club is the spiritual citadel and real seat if the British power, the Nirvana for which native officials and millionaires pine in vain. It was doubly so in this case for it was the proud boast of Kyanktada [Katha] Club that, almost alone of Clubs in Burma, it had never admitted an Oriental to membership. Beyond the Club, the Irrawaddy flowed huge and ochreous, glittering like diamonds in the patches that caught the sun; and beyond the river stretched great wastes of paddy fields, ending at the horizon in a range of blackish hills."[1]

Next to Orwell's watering hole was a building of the same colonial architecture twice as large but with the six-inch wooden bars in the window. It was the old police station where Orwell worked. Next to the police station and slightly in from the river were the law courts, a square two-story affair with a small front veranda that housed a bell. These buildings in the walled-in compound formed the crux of what Orwell called the maiden.

Having checked all the buildings on his Orwell's map, Thomas wanted to find Orwell's old house near the jail so he left the maiden, passed the pagoda and looked for his house from among a row of homes on the street where the jail was. Orwell's house was marked beside a cemetery but there were many new structures not on his map. Down the road and past a house on stilts with a rusted roof and hidden by overgrown trees, Thomas found an old wooden archway that looked like it could have once been a graveyard. There were no gravestones but the earth was uneven in a ten-by-twenty path of ground. It was then that he went back to the rusted-roofed house on stilts that at first glance he thought was a shack about to fall down, but then he saw the small rusted cross above the door.

The church was a haphazard affair with tin walls and rusted roof with a small modest cross at its apex that was outside of the boundary of Mandalay map. Thomas hopped over a decaying picket fence overgrown with weeds onto long grass that was soft and carried with it a strong whiff of snake pit. Its foundation had almost completely worn away and termites had eaten through the wood but somehow it still stood. Up the front steps he saw thriteen olive branches above the front door in pewtered lead, the symbol for the tribe of Manessah. Beside it was :


Its pewtered lead was fastened into place by some divine will. A lantern made of the same material as the insignia was just under the small roof. The number 13 carved into the soft lead of the lantern could barely be seen. Dripping with sweat and with the rust skinning his hands, he used his knife to jimmy the latch behind the lantern but it fell, glass shattering by his feet. Immediately he sensed a guard watching him from the jail but when he saw a piece of paper tied with a string he put it into his pocket without stopping to look at it. Almost recklessly with sweat dripping from the tip of his nose, Thomas ran his fingers through the pile of glass to make sure there wasn't anything else in the lantern. Feeling something cold like metal he clutched it, and in one quick movement put the metal object in his front pocket, feeling glass slice his thumb.

Walking away from the church with his head down, the excitement in his gut turned to raw fear. With his heart thumping and slipping on his sunglasses, when he reached the road he walked in the other direction to the jail convinced someone was watching him from the corner tower. Hardly able to contain his anxiety, he hailed a tricycle and asked to go to the Methodist Church. Thomas was in a state of numb stasis until they were rolling downhill in the tricycle going east. Finally in the distance the old Methodist Church founded by Eugenio Kin Kaid appeared.

[1] Burmese Days, Orwell, p.14




(Starving artist!)


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The train in Burma that took Thomas Robertson
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