Читать книгу Claiming Her - Marilyn "Mattie" Brahen - Страница 11

CHAPTER 8

The Snow Queen. It reminds me of Hans Christian Anderson’s famous story, everything white and crystal. The crystalized plain, smooth and shining, seems to travel to an endless horizon, only small white huts with frozen gardens and shrubbery dotting the flat landscape. In the distance beyond the village, the plain rises to the right, a forest flowing outward, and dips to the left, continuing the line of flatland.

The spirit masters live in these huts. Quatama calls himself my spirit master.

We walk along the crystal ice to his dwelling. I remark upon the wintery, fragile, fairy tale appearance of this place.

“It is winter here, just as it is in your world. The spirit planes of Eliom and of Earth are very close and share the same seasonal rotation. But the seasons are enhanced in our world, made pure in a way that cannot be matched in your dimension.”

I notice I’m barefoot, in my nightgown, yet only feel a pleasant coolness beneath me and around me. Quatama is clothed in a brown longsleeved robe that seems much too roomy for his short, almost scrawny frame. His thin black hair curls over his neck. Tendrils cling to his forehead. His face is neither old nor young and difficult to focus on, as if it were a flickering hologram. From what I can see of it, he has small, opaque, black eyes, a pointed but small nose, thin cheeks, and thin, relaxed lips. His skin is sallow and pale.

We reach Quatama’s hut. There is no door, just an entrance way we pass through. The inside is sparsely furnished: a low table, no chairs, rugs on the floor. Shelves and hooks hold belongings, but I cannot focus on them.

Quatama sits on the rug in the front room. There is a smaller room beyond it, which also seems bare, empty, but I cannot see fully into it. Quatama gestures beside himself, and I sit down next to him.

“I don’t know how I got here,” I tell him.

“You are out of body. Your mortal, Earthly body. Your spirit is now encased in your astral body, a more permanent vehicle of expression.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Think of stacking dolls, one fitting within the other. The outer body is the physical body, within it, the mental or emotional self attached to the physical. Within that, the astral body which is a viable thought form created by the spirit which rests within it, which cradles the spark of life fueling each individual.”

I blink at him, understanding, experiencing my multiplicity as he explains it. The feeling is uncomfortable. I struggle and return to a sense of just one self.

He laughs, three fluted notes of perfect tone and duration.

“No,” I say, “I don’t understand how I got here. The transition from the mortal world to this one.”

“Oh,” Quatama says. His speaking voice, a soft, gravelly rumble, differs from his laughter, not a musical note to be heard. “It is similar to dreaming. As your physical body slept, your spirit, or mind, if you prefer, responded to my summons, locked onto my location and, within seconds of your mortal time, journeyed here by activating your astral or spirit body for dimensional travel.”

“Does the astral or spirit body grow and eventually die, like the physical one?”

“The spirit body is of a more permanent nature. We judge time here differently, in fact, control it to our needs. Time is a concept. Through it, we interact through space with matter, and by it, we gauge our experience and growth. But, yes, the spirit body can be changed, altered, to reflect stages of growth, and is eventually discarded by most in what you would call the far distant future, though sooner by some.”

“Discarded?”

“Even death on Earth is a need to discard the body when the life experience goal—the growth it was fashioned to express—is finished.”

“And what if the growth wasn’t properly . . . expressed?”

A faint hint of a smile crosses his lips. “Then the lesson must be relearned.”

“Take the class all over again.”

“Live another Earthly life with that lesson as part of it once more.”

“We have no free will?”

He looks surprised, then laughs again, but this time the notes hold a sad timbre. “All is free. Nothing is forced. Everyone of us is responsible for our own decisions.”

“But . . . what if you don’t want to learn the lesson over again?”

“Then you will not grow,” he says somberly, “and stagnation will set in until, in time, you realize the need and accept the responsibility for correcting your faults.”

I squirm on the rug. It appears to be a simple rug, a light olive green, cool and comfortable. My restlessness is due to my uncertainty. Why has Quatama brought me here? What has he to do with Bael and my dream of Eliom? What did he say—as we walked to his hut— about Eliom?

“Quatama? Where is Eliom?”

“You are in Eliom.”

I furrow my brows, confused. “This doesn’t look like Eliom in my dream.”

“Ah, yes. Your dream. Reliving a memory 35,000 Earthly years old.”

“35,000?! Bael said he had waited four thousand years.”

“He has found you before, despite our vigilance.” Quatama gestures at the low table before us. A glazed earthenware pot of steaming liquid and two small cups appear upon it. Quatama pours what smells like a fragrant cinnamon tea into the cups.

“Do we need to eat and drink on this plane?”

“We may not need it. We may desire it.”

I sip from my cup, the taste pleasant, slightly sweet. “Bael gave me a message for you, Quatama.”

“Then you must deliver it, for he is not permitted to travel to this place, and I have no desire to seek him in the depths.”

The depths!? “He said you must allow us to seek a new beginning.” In my astral state, I find it hard to clearly recall Bael’s words. “He said you must allow us to try to heal the rift . . . although I don’t remember exactly what the rift was. Did Bael and I fight? End our previous relationship in Eliom? Quatama, I don’t understand any of this. I don’t remember what happened to Bael and myself all those centuries ago in Eliom.”

Quatama rises from the floor, literally, his legs still tucked beneath him, robe flowing over them. He straightens them in one fluid motion, standing now, and reaches out a hand to help me up. “He refers to the rift in the heavens.”

“I still don’t understand.”

He leads me outside. “Shut your eyes, Leianna.”

I do so, and feel him briefly touch my hand again.

“You may open your eyes now.”

We stand on one side of a city street. A sculpted stone balustrade, wide clear walkways, and corner gardens surround a large stone building, designed like a Roman temple, its stairs leading to thick scrollworked columns at its entrance. Across the street is a park; down the street, in what appears to be a shopping avenue, colorful stores gaily display their items and wares. People pass by us, unconcerned by my nightgowned figure. It appears to be a normal day, the people intent on their own business. I notice they are also clothed, pretty much, for winter. But although the few trees lining the thoroughfare are still leafless, neither snow nor ice can be seen.

“The climate here is more controlled,” Quatama answers my unspoken question. “The population has unanimously decided on an early Spring. Soon the trees will bud.”

He walks up the stairs to the Romanesque building. “This is the Hall of Seraphic Records,” he explains. “We are still in Eliom, which has grown and changed with the passing centuries. This city is known as the City of God. It exists here on the eighth physical astral plane, along with other cities resurrected humanity has built.”

“Resurrected humanity?”

“Those who have finished all of their Earthly lessons and no longer incarnate.”

“Are unfinished humans allowed up here?” I wonder if the question is moot, being I am up here.

“They normally inhabit the sixth physical astral plane . . . the sixth heaven . . . between incarnations. Those still mortal can visit their deceased loved ones on that plane as well, although few remember such visits.”

Huge engraved doors open as we approach them. We enter the Hall of Seraphic Records. Inside, a long corridor stretches into the distance, seeming much too extended, impossibly so, for a building of this size. Quatama doesn’t remark on my amazement, simply leads me down the corridor about thirty yards and turns right down another corridor. We continue on another twenty yards or so, passing doors with frosted glass and lettering I can’t quite read. The entire interior reminds me of a school, the walls green and yellow, the doors dark brown with golden handles.

We pause at a door on the left. The lettering, large and black against the glass reads: Auricular-Visual Recall. Quatama pushes against the door. It swings open. I follow him inside. A pert blonde with a hairstyle and face reminiscent of Sandra Dee or Doris Day from the early sixties sits behind a brown wooden desk, off-white filing cabinets behind her, and another door to the left of the cabinets. The woman wears a flowery, gauzy blouse that nonetheless is discreet.

“Hello, Master,” she greets Quatama, with a curious but pleasant nod to me.

“Hello, Rosemary. We would like to review this young lady’s first lifetime in segments, starting with her infancy.”

“First Earthly lifetime?”

“No. First immortal lifetime in cognizant form. It took place in old Eliom.”

“Oh.” She glances at me, impressed, and gets up to open one file drawer. Unconcealed by the desk, I realize she is clothed in an Indian sari. “Her spiritual name?”

“Leianna, daughter of Michael and Eve.”

The woman’s hand freezes, motionless, as she reaches into what appears to be an empty drawer. She looks at me, her expression both surprised and subdued, then at Quatama, her brows lifting sharply. I wonder what caused her double-take, but she doesn’t explain it.

Quatama glances over it, saying with gentle patience, “I wish her to review certain significant events, but it cannot be done in one mortal night. I wish her to have total conscious mortal recollection of that lifetime, sharply detailed, with full comprehension when she awakens on Earth. It cannot interfere with her mortal duties and activities, and we must guard against sensory overload. I would like her gauged as to her limit and a buffer transmitted into both her astral and physical brains, to stop the transmission the moment her emotional and intellectual levels reach capacity. The memory regenerator should also be set to mark the stopping point, to gauge where to begin the next segment.”

“Yes, sir,” Rosemary says. She pulls a red accordion file from the previously empty drawer and places it on the desk. I peer into it. There appears to be a plain manila folder, lettersized, a shiny hard black rectangle approximately five inches by seven inches, and what looks like a diamond prism. “Everything in order?” she asks me.

“I wouldn’t know,” I tell her.

“You wouldn’t?” This clearly confuses her, which in turn confuses me. Why does she think I would understand any of this? This is the craziest dream I’ve ever had.

“It is not a dream,” Quatama says, and upon hearing that, I start to hyperventilate.

Quatama reaches out and touches my inner elbow. A cloud of silver sparkles seems to rotate around me, in front of my eyes, and I suddenly feel calmer.

“She doesn’t know,” Rosemary says, her voice hushed again.

“No. She doesn’t know,” Quatama agrees. “Is the viewing room ready?”

“I prepared it a second ago, sir. And the report on her intake limitations is in the small folder. The buffer crystal is also set and ready for transmittal.”

Quatama lifts out the onyx rectangle. “The record is detailed?”

“Nothing pertinent left out, master.”

“I will probably realign it for virtual reenactment later on. For now, we’ll let her start her past life recall from a spectator’s viewpoint.”

“The record is set to that option, sir.”

Quatama offers her a pleased smile, returning the black stone to the accordion file. “You’re a very efficient aide, Rosemary.”

She beams. “Thank you, Quatama. So many people find this service so helpful. I get excited just knowing I’m helping them to help themselves.” She says this so sincerely, I think I am back in the sixties. Peace, love, and brotherhood.

Rosemary’s eyes dart over, locking sharply with my own. “I did mean that.”

“Oh!”

Quatama is grinning, closed mouth. He appears to be holding in a gale of laughter. Picking up the file, he moves to the inner door, opening it outwardly. I see another corridor beyond. “Leianna?”

I head through the door, then turn back to Rosemary. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I think it’s wonderful that you love your job.”

I get an amused smile in return.

She regards me, then Quatama. “You really did keep a tight veil over her, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” His smile remains ever patient. “But now we are lifting it.” Rosemary parts her lips, about to speak. “Please, no questions,” he tells her. “I do not have answers yet.”

* * * *

Beyond the door are smaller enclosed rooms. Some are apparently occupied, a small triangle glowing white on the center of their closed entrance doors. We reach one whose triangle appears to be clear glass.

Quatama touches the triangle; it begins glowing beneath his hand and the door opens, as if welcoming us. We enter what looks like a small projection booth: a white screen about three yards square fills the bulk of the wall beyond us, in front of it, two cushioned, quite comfortable-looking chairs. Quatama gestures me into the right-hand one, and places the accordion file on the wide seat of the other chair.

Lifting out the small manila folder, he scans the data inside, puts it back, and removes the tiny diamond prism. “It is skane, not diamond,” he says.

“Skane?”

“Pure energy, compressed and solidified. Very precious.”

He brings the sparkling prism over to me. “This will not cause you any discomfort.”

Still, I back perceptibly into the chair as he aims the prism toward my diaphragm. He stops, holds the prism flat in his hand and offers it to me. “Here. You can insert it yourself. Touch the edge to your solar plexus. It will disappear, its energy transferring into you. The energy is predirected. It will guard you against overstimulation of your neurological synapses.”

I take the prism from him gingerly and, with some trepidation, rest the edge against my stomach.

“A bit higher,” Quatama says.

I move it slightly upward and watch dumbfounded as its radiance begins to build rapidly until I hold nothing in my hand, now open and empty, my mouth gaping in wonder, as what appears to be sparkling atoms rotate slowly and seep into my astral body.

I feel a tickling in my stomach and a lightheadedness, and then these sensations stop. I feel normal again . . . as normal as possible under these circumstances.

“Good,” Quatama says. “Now we can begin.”

He removes the black stone from the accordion file, holds it before the viewing screen and gently pushes it into the clear white space. The screen gives way, as if it were wet sculptor’s clay, absorbing the opaque rectangle completely.

Quatama places the file on the floor between our chairs and sits down. “There is no need to show you your immortal birth. Many are embarrassed viewing that. My goal is to show you the people who shaped your first entry into eternal life, their influence upon you and yours upon them. You must understand the interaction between souls, for in the future, you may have to make decisions based upon the goals, needs and desires of those you interacted with in this particular lifetime . . . as well as your own needs, goals and desires and those of your loved ones in your current life.”

The screen begins to flicker, to take on shape and sound. Images congeal and sharpen, and I stare at Eliom, the Eliom I’d dreamt of, living with my father Michael.

The clay cottage with its thatched roof is outwardly similar to the other homes dotting the undulating rises and dips of the land, the hillscape of Eliom, more widely inhabited than the current landscape where Quatama and the other spirit masters reside.

The screen image alters, showing the interior of my and Michael’s cottage, much more gaily decorated, evidencing a woman’s touch other than my own. Refreshments—fruits, vegetables, and nuts, both whole and prepared in tempting-looking recipes, spicy breads and sweet cakes, and jugs and pitchers of what looks like honeyed wines or fruit nectars—are laid out on a broad wooden table. Wooden cutlery and plates and clay goblets also rest on the table.

All appears untouched, as if awaiting guests at a feast.

Thick cushions rest in corners of the front room; some cover a long wooden bench paralleling the laden table.

A young man descends from the sleeping loft above, turns and moves forward on the screen. He smiles gently down at something. The picture adjusts to show the object of his interest. He peers paternally into a small, ornately carved, wooden cradle, a tiny infant asleep within it.

The man seems vaguely familiar with his curly brown hair and soft brown eyes. I have no inkling of who the baby might be.

I hear Quatama’s light musical laughter again. “The child in the cradle is your own infant self, Leianna. The man is your father, Michael, before sorrow lined his face.”

A woman enters the room, from the backroom, the storeroom. She carries a bowl of bright orange leaves, placing them on the feast table. Her soft auburn hair falls in lush ringlets to the small of her back. She is short, small-boned, an aura of fragility about her. She turns to Michael, and I study her face, vaguely familiar, but somehow disturbing, as if those alarming green eyes, diminutive nose and softly curved lips have somehow caused me great pain.

“Your mother, Eve,” Quatama says. The light in the viewing room dims until we sit in near darkness, as if in a theater.

“Yes,” Quatama remarks. “Very much so. The darkness allows concentration, filters out distractions. I have chosen the second important event of your childhood in Eliom to begin your memory recall. Although you were only newborn, the people and events around you were quite pertinent. On this day, you were named, your soul offered in service to our Creator, and received in return a sacred blessing, but in a manner which no child before had ever experienced.”