God’s
Painted Skies
- self-published, by Sue Simonich with Smashwords.com - February
2012
Revised edition May 2012
All characters in this work are fictional. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by D. Suzanne Simonich
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
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Hardenberg, Friedrich Von, Novalis (Friedrich Von Hardenberg) His Life, Thoughts and Works, Edited and translated by M. J. Hope, Chicago 1891.
Leigh Oliver H. G., editing Arouet, François-Marie (Voltaire), Voltaire – Index to his Works, Genius and Character, 1905.
Antoninus, Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, The Roman Emperor, Concerning Himself, London. 1692.
The Mahatma Letters to A.P. Sinnett from the Mahatmas M. & K. H. Transcribed and compiled with an introduction by A. T. Barker, Theosophical University Press. 1926.
Blavatsky, Madame Helena, Isis Unveiled, A Master-Key to the Mysteries of Ancient and Modern Science and Theology, Vol. 1 & 2, New York, 1892.
Buck, Pearl S. The Good Earth, 1931
Shakespeare, William, Richard III, 1597
Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan, Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 1892
Cover photo by Vladislav Turchenko * Title page image by Madartists
Copyrighted/Royalty Free Images by Dreamstimes.com
Cover and title page designed by Sue Simonich.
Prologue
September 1948
The Uintah Mountains of Utah
Many months have passed since I arrived beneath the soaring cliffs and painted skies of my childhood. I shall be leaving soon, destination unknown. One more walk along the lake, listening to the soft murmuring voices of nature, would be so pleasant. There is no time. I feel it coming, the urgency building like a wave.
Shuddering, I call out to God for mercy, as another contraction thunders through my weakened body, shaking the life from me. Squirming atop the soddened cot, rivulets of perspiration run into my eyes. My hair is matted, sticking to my face. I am too tired to push it away. Gritting my teeth, panting through each interminable pulse; I white-knuckle the leather strap attached to the bed frame. Biting down on a soft piece of wood stifles my anguished cries. Why shouldn’t I just shout? It makes no difference. I am alone.
My logical mind hovers in suspended consciousness. By now, I had expected a lusty wail to gladden my heart, followed by a well-earned and contented rest. The stillness of the room has absolved me of that dream. The heavy pressure in my abdomen confirms it. Abject panic burns a hole in my resolve. Struggling to relax and reclaim my optimism, I continue to pray, trying to focus my mind elsewhere and abolish the discomfort. Cheerfully, I think: perhaps with one more push, we will be liberated.
Fighting to remain present and positive, I gaze at the fire. The flames dance high and low, keeping the room barely comfortable and smoky. The low crackling and popping are a relief, a staccato to the silence gathering around me.
Marina has gone for help. Plucky little Marina felt sure she could handle anything as my mid-wife. I don’t blame her self-assurance, but I do berate my own stupidity. Of course, she helped birth many babies in her village, but my baby is breach. How could she have known? How unwise of me to believe I could be as fearless as the Chinese women described by author Pearl Buck. Birthing a baby in a rice paddy is second nature to their culture – or is it but a myth? I am not a Chinese woman, though I thought I was as tough as one could be. Instead, I am alone, a squatter in a wilderness of my own making – desolate, dispirited, and too weary to continue.
Trying to muster sanguinity in spite of the situation, I brightly remember there are reasons to keep going - so much time ahead, a life to live, and a child to be raised. Perhaps my love will come – but it has been too long. I have been irresponsible and selfish in my commitment to him. I realized this too late. Squeezing my eyes closed, tears course down my cheeks remembering the sweetness of his kiss.
The soothing hum of the wind through the trees calms me. Branches scraping the outside wall produce a sawing sound that keeps me awake and focused. I hear the meadowlark in the field just beyond the road. Thoughts of my predicament recede as the next contraction begins.
Groaning, I steel myself. Perhaps I should submit like a leaf in a river, slipping effortlessly through turbulent waters. Would it hasten the inevitable? Can a baby slide through the birth canal fanny first and survive? Can I? The thought chills me.
Focusing on my breath, the agony tears me asunder. Consciousness blurs but I fight to keep my concentration. Amid the ringing in my ears, I hear the gentle music of a flute; distant but steadily rising.
I am a fighter and refuse to die like this. I will not give him the satisfaction. My stone-cold father will not have the last word. Perhaps I was negligent, but not immoral as he would contend. He guessed my predicament even as I denied it. I banished myself. Isn’t that enough? I am not sorry. What is the point?
Rallying, I remember my sisters and our camaraderie. Smiling, I recall our slogan, “little rebels in blue.” Impatiently I await their arrival. Where are they? Don’t they know I am suffering and awaiting their strength? How unwise it was of me to ever consider birthing my child alone in the backcountry. I should have gone to Paris. Now, it is too late. The months in this purgatory have left me empty and resigned.
Frightened, I wonder, will Marina return soon? Oh, Dear God, the flood of pain is unbearable. Through my tears, with anxiety in my voice, I call to her, “Marina! Where are you?”
From the shadows, she quietly steps to my side. The look on her face is drawn and worried. Breathlessly, I clutch her hand and gasp, “Marina, the pain is excruciating, what am I to do? I don’t want to die.” Sniffing back tears, my confidence is flagging.
Her kind eyes brim as she hugs my hand to her soft cheek, and whispers in her native accent, “They are coming – hold on dear friend, they are coming.” She sponges my face with cool water and allows me to slake my thirst.
I think: She doesn’t know what to do, but she knows I am desperately close to the end. The pain is rising. Locking my flexed knees, I bear down. My pelvic floor tears. I whimper, knowing I should have held back. Perilously loosing blood, I cast an urgent glance her way, whispering, “Has the baby come?” Looking over my knees, she shakes her head in despair. Weakening, I feel darkness descending upon my quivering condition. With unconsciousness, the pain melts away, taking with it the fear.
Present again, my sisters have arrived, mercifully they have brought mother. Mama’s touch is always magical. My heart lifts as mother positions herself between my knees, shouting instructions to Marina for hot water and sheeting.
“I am saved.” I whisper to them, managing a wan smile of appreciation.
My sight has diminished again. I perceive only watery shapes. Angels surround the cot, bending to give me heavenly comfort and joyous greeting. An explosion of light takes me and I begin to float.
Weeping in regret, my sisters are blaming themselves. Simultaneously, I feel my mother’s unconditional love and tragic loss. Feverishly she is attempting to work a miracle. She calls to me over the gulf. “Elizabeth, stay with me dear.” she pleads, “Don’t you dare leave me daughter!” A tumult engulfs her as she works to save me.
It’s too late. I am in the light and feel the bliss of crossing into the arms of God. A mournful cry issues from the darkness, as mother lifts my newborn from the afterbirth. For a split second, I see the bluish cord wrapped around her shoulders. Seeing her lovely little face, and bright eyes I am relieved. She is alive, beautiful and tiny as a fawn. Thoughts of my tender lover are my last. Weeping, I fling my arm backward desperately grappling for life, while slipping into the bright void of death.
Chapter 1
1986
Salt Lake City
Leaden storm clouds pressed into the Salt Lake Valley as the leading edge of a cold front penetrated the Intermountain West. Ensnaring the pre-dawn sky, a tumbling gale brimming with brittle effervescence covered the foothills with a sparkling mantel of white. Near the house, a line of Siberian elms leaned into the squall - their embattled skeletal forms trembled and clattered with each convulsive gust. Inside the house, a loudly resonating phone broke the morning stillness. Rousing from a deep sleep, Nova hastily jumped from the sofa to grab the offending instrument.
“Good Morning Mom,” she mumbled into the receiver. Pushing errant, honey-colored hair over her lean shoulder, her sleepy green eyes began to focus. Glancing outside, a slow smile washed over her face as she observed the valley engulfed in a phalanx of steel grey clouds swirling with snow.
Grace replied tightly, “For goodness sake, aren’t you awake yet Nova?”
On guard and irritated by her mother’s insolent, early greeting, she cleared the frog from her throat, weakly feinting a reply, “Wow, have you looked outside this morning Mom? Seems I returned from London just in time, doesn’t it?”
Awkwardly reaching across the counter with the phone glued to her ear, she grabbed the kettle and set it in the sink. Aware of the dryness in her throat, she turned on the water while irritably thinking: . . . not in the mood to listen to Grace’s rhetoric this morning.
Jet lag from her trip was proving relentless. A late night at the museum, helping Jake with research left her doubly exhausted. Getting back to the grind after two weeks abroad was not easy.
Grace was a morning person, and already in high gear. Nova could read her mood simply in the way she said “hello.” Today she was anticipatory and disturbed. Nova tried to inject some lightness into her mother’s anxious mood. Stretching, she lazily quipped in a friendly tone, “You’re up rather early Gracie - couldn’t sleep again, huh? Was Mr. Peterson howling at the moon again?” She chuckled, remembering Grace’s strange neighbor.
Not amused, Grace tersely replied, “I have a full day planned, you know, and there is no time for lollygagging. Rue is picking me up for errands at nine.” Pressing her daughter, in a humorless voice, she continued, “Um . . . I wanted to remind you . . . Don’t forget your appointment with her on Wednesday. I didn’t check with Julia, but I am sure if you have a conflict you can rearrange your schedule with this much advance notice.” In a patronizing tone, she continued, “I’m sure Rue’s schedule is already packed. Doctors always have patients, you know.”
Nova thought: Yeah, I know and you should be one of them. Her brow pleated in a resigned frown, as her shoulders slumped in disappointment. Her first impression of Grace’s mood was accurate - and her meddling right on schedule. Nova knew the signs. Pensive hedging in Grace’s speech always indicated something was about to break; and the use of the phrase “you know” indicated her mind was dual processing - saying one thing but meaning another. Knowing her temerity, Nova considered hanging up before she got started, but could not bring herself to be rude. Hackles at the ready, her mouth tightened in resignation. A saturnine mood replaced her sleepiness. Forcing cheerfulness into her voice, she searched for a subject to deflect Grace. Her head ached. Creativity lacking, she said, “But Gracie, don’t you remember? Rue and I have a standing appointment once a month. No need to remind me or firm up schedules, that’s what Julia does for me.”
Rue was the family shrink. Grace needed her more than Nova ever did.
Trying to throw a little humor into the conversation, Nova forced a chuckle adding, “Are you competing for Julia’s job? I guarantee it would put a crimp in your social life.”
Nova’s monthly meetings with her Aunt Rue were purely social, but they often discussed how to deal with her maladjusted mother. Grace needed an outlet, something creative to redirect her mind, but she was only interested in two things – her church and meddling. No one could convince her to stay out of Nova’s business.
Grace rattled on, “Of course, I know all that,” she said, in an exasperated tone. “No, I don’t want her job. I am too old to work. Your father’s pension keeps me quite comfortable. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget. It is important to remember your meetings with Auntie Rue – she can help you, you know.”
“Yes, of course, Grace.” Nova sighed in resignation. She steeled her patience realizing her mother was on oral autopilot; and, her one-track mind was manifest this morning.
As if sensing Nova was manipulating her, Grace suddenly changed direction. “Um . . . you know . . . last week Sister Wilson and I spent time on a project together . . .”
Rolling her eyes, Nova plunked down on the stool.
Grace’s verbal dysentery was predictably getting into high gear. The topic of her church projects always degenerated into a tiresome, blah, blah, blah in Nova’s disinterested mind. Reflexively, she usually turned off her hearing and shifted her brain to neutral, muttering “Oh and Uh huh,” whenever it seemed appropriate.
Light banter would not sidetrack Grace’s purpose when she engaged a topic she believed to be important. Her personality disorder had strained their relationship for years. What caused the shift in her nature was never obvious even to Rue. Grace’s illness started without provocation shortly after she married and moved to Seattle. The trigger certainly was not marital, as Jack Denver was always very kind and deferential with Grace. Nova always thought it had something to do with herself. Other children may have rejected a parent for such behavior; but for Nova, being an only child, it was impossible - especially since her father’s death.
Pulling her ear away from the phone slightly, she tended to kitchen chores. Fingering the bevy of hanging pots and pans, lined up parade fashion on a rack above a large commercial gas stove; she pulled one down and filled it with cold water. Gently submerging two fresh eggs, she switched on the gas burner. On another, she fired up the tea kettle.
Next to the stove, a large Mexican glass jar with a protruding pot-bellied waist was filled with an assortment of teas. Extracting the stout cork stopper, she selected an Earl Grey tea bag. In no time, the kettle began to burble and blast bubbles from the bottom, causing it to whistle loudly. She grinned at the sound as she continued to busy herself, while only half-listening to her mother prattle on about church.
“Nova! You’re not really listening are you?”
“Uh huh . . . uh hu . . . Of course, I am Mom!” In defensive pretense, and out of respect for Grace, she merely feigned interest. Usually she let her mind relax and drift through details of her latest project or some other personal business, rather than listening attentively to Grace’s droning.
When Grace got into one of her moods, Nova’s thoughts flashed back to her father, whom she was seriously missing lately. Together she and Jack had learned to work around Grace’s obsessive personality. Long ago, he had instilled a sense of personal power in Nova that Grace always attempted to undermine. A tug of war between philosophies was at the forefront of their troubles. Religion was their battleground.
After his death, to deflect her mother’s constant harangue, Nova stayed busy at the museum; first, as a grad student then professionally as the herbarium director. Travelling extensively, she purposely applied for lengthy assignments or looked for interesting projects at distant universities. Her home base was around family, but as much as possible she lived on the “academic lam” as her friends aptly described it.
When her father died, he left her with a generous inheritance and a home perched on a long, serpentine ravine cut into the arid foothills overlooking the Salt Lake Valley. Grace chose to live with her frail mother in the old Benton family home located on the Avenues.
Nova had been home two days from her London trip, and could not dodge Grace much longer. Jokingly, her friend Jake often told her she suffered from “Stockholm Syndrome.” Sometimes she thought he was not too far off the mark.
Chattering on, Grace kept grinding, “You know dear, Rue has been working with a colleague who is a psychiatrist in Illinois. He is interested in children who see spirits. She told him you had experienced such phenomena your entire life.”
Oh, brother – here we go again, Nova thought. No doubt, this was information she picked up from television.
Grace had always been fixated on and embarrassed by her daughter’s unusual gifts. While attempting to make her “normal,” she never missed a chance to disparage and discourage Nova. During junior high school, she had become hysterical about Nova’s intuitive abilities when a fascinated teacher mentioned it at a parent conference. Aunt Rue saw nothing abnormal about her instinctive abilities and tried to reassure Grace. Ironically, Grace considered Rue’s advice “counterintuitive” within the rubric of the local religious belief. Neither philosophy would ever reconcile with the other.
After the embarrassing adolescent episode, Nova ceased sharing her capabilities. It was safer that way. Yet oddly, even now, Grace’s neurosis continued to build on prior information she had shared earlier in her life. Her innate abilities and “invisible friend” had always vexed Grace, who wanted a more compliant soul in her daughter. In other words, she wanted a child who followed lockstep with her own worldview. This was a hallmark of her religion.
Blathering on, Grace’s voice dissolved into a distant echoing. Most mornings Nova was able to steer her to an amicable conversation. Quietly waiting, she knew her mother’s real intent was coming. Attempting to reroute the conversation again, she brightly interjected, “Mother, isn’t this the most wonderful day? The weather is absolutely phenomenal!” Continuing the attempt to destabilize Grace’s train of thought, she added, “Hey, I have a meeting this afternoon with a fellow ethnobotanist, who just returned from New Zealand. I can’t wait to see his slides and hear his stories. He’s been living with the Maori for six months, and the elders have shared some of their folk medicine with him.”
Sometimes providing rapid-fire dialogue and new topics would divert Grace.
Slicing through Nova’s attempt to change the subject, she flatly said, “Yes darling, it’s all very interesting. I know how much you enjoy a good snowstorm; but you know Auntie Rue is looking forward . . . blah, blah . . . in the Chicago laboratory.”
Holy Mother, she thought, Grace can not be sidetracked today. Sinking weakly back onto the barstool, Nova was sorely tempted to quietly put the phone down and let Grace talk to dead air while she showered.
Suddenly, Grace’s verbal cadence picked up to a canter. Nova sensed it would break into a full run at any moment. Forging on, she was like a precocious child trying to explain an incomprehensible concept to an adult with no imagination.
Lately, she had begun making up things, like the Chicago doctor, which worried Nova. The fact that she would try and include Rue in this doctor’s work, made her wonder if Grace wasn’t on the fringes of some type of dementia. Today, she was really ditching reality. Rue would want to know of this latest development. Together they probably would need to schedule an appointment for Grace to see a neurologist. This was definitely something Rue was incapable of dealing with in her practice.
Grace galloped on about the mythical doctor, talking over Nova’s polite attempts to intervene. Squinting, Nova held the bridge of her nose with her fingers. A headache was forming behind her eyes. Bowing her head in pain, she abruptly squawked, “Mother, please stop!”
Wresting the conversation from Grace she began, “Mom, you know I no longer discuss my spiritual or religious beliefs with anyone.”
“Yes dear, you’re right. I should let you make these decisions; after all, you are a grown woman.” she said, her voice laced with condescension.
Feigned pragmatism, easily delivered with such disdain, signaled Grace was setting Nova up. Since Nova’s father had died, Grace had become more aggressive about her daughter’s lack of an approved religious belief and her marital status.
Her shrill voice came back full volume in Nova’s ear. “You know this man has studies from many countries about children who have been psychologically damaged by beliefs in the supernatural.” Her train of thought made another abrupt detour, “Thank goodness our missionaries are going to the Indian reservations and convincing their elders to send their little children into the Church’s foster care program.” she said, a maudlin tone in her voice. “Who knows what might have happened to those red people if we hadn’t stepped in to teach them the gospel. Can you imagine how they would have turned out?”
Nova smoldered at this arrogant attitude. Depriving native children of their rich, ancestral heritage was tantamount to genocide of their culture. She often wondered why “men of the cloth” for lack of a better all-inclusive term, felt their own perspective was always the right one, and sanctioned by God. Wasn’t it enough that the government had undermined their culture; did they have to destroy their religion too?
Grace’s next diatribe turned the tables again, aimed directly at Nova. “Darling I am always so concerned about your welfare. I want you to find a lifetime of happiness.” Then as expected, she spiked, “Most of your friends have families now and . . . blah blah blah.”
The ambush was on. Looking to the ceiling, Nova cut Grace off, with a simple punctuated down-toned “Mother!”
Searching for patience, she was only half listening to Grace’s instant rejoinder. Talking over Grace, she sternly countered, “Mother, you seem to have forgotten. I am not interested in having a family unless I can find the right partner. I want a companion with compatible philosophies about life and religion.” Cynically, she added, “Have you and your church friends been engaged in a stratagem huddle to hatch a new plan to get me married off?”
Grace’s voice cracked on the other end, and Nova knew she had squarely split the truth from her mother’s perceived checkmate. She wondered: Why is Grace such an eternal nag on this subject? Why does she always try to disguise it? Nova just wanted her to back off.
Chuntering, Grace surged onward, “Sister Wilson’s widowed son Joseph is ready to remarry. He is a lawyer and has two small children who are desperately in need a mother. Nova, you would make a wonderful mother.” A wistful inflection entered her voice, “um . . . and you know . . . I would love them just the same as you.”
Appalled at Grace’s jumping the gun into surrogacy, Nova cut in, “For goodness sake Grace, stop already! Why don’t you apply for the job? Perhaps he needs a nanny rather than a wife. By Heaven, you’re a widow, why don’t you marry him?” she said irritably.
Pressing on past Nova’s attempts to quiet her, she countered, “Yes, yes, I know, there are no men in this town worthy of you Nova. Should we broaden the field of male inadequacy and add - in the entire state or country?” Getting more personal and poisonous she added, “In my opinion, you don’t give anyone a chance. Instead, you live vicariously through that so-called spirit guardian you’ve manufactured. Seriously, honey, you need a real life. Are you becoming one of those intolerable women’s lib types? Don’t you like men?”
Prickling at her insults, Nova parried, “Good Lord Mother, living in a city so stilted and stifled by religious dogma, you’re probably right; I am destined to be a spinster - or however you define unmarried these days. Do you know what? I don’t give a flying fig! Hell mother, I am happy and set in my ways, approaching middle age now. Yes, my biological clock is running down and truly - I DON’T CARE!” she said, with a flare of anger. “Children are not going to be part of my life. I can accept it, why can't you?”
She let the insinuating comments about Stephen and lesbians go, because her mother had always been delusional and frightened by things she didn’t understand. Nova knew her use of mild profanity and flippant attitude would probably upset Grace, but she could not handle any more.
In a forced tone of peace, she quietly reminded Grace, “Mama. I will not allow you or your religious beliefs to push me into a hopelessly dull life. Forced marches into matrimony are part of the reason I quit my affiliation with the church. I am not going to marry someone of your faith. I tire of arguing this point with you. Can’t you just let me live my own life?” Seething beneath the surface, she became quiet, waiting for Grace to apologize. Instead, she became dramatic using a quavering voice and tears.
“But sweetie, what other chance will you have?”
Bristling, Nova stabbed, “Grace, don’t give it another second of your time. Things will work out for me. For the umpteenth time, I am telling you, I am not the least bit concerned. I beg you - please accept my beliefs as unique to my personality. You need not vilify what you consider my flaws mother. I can think for myself. Marriage will not solve our relationship problems or change my inherent belief system. I certainly will not change for some refined gentleman from your church - and you understand that! You also understand I don’t believe in, nor do I have a testimony to offer.” With finality she added, “God is entirely a different matter; He is just fine with who I am.”
“You can’t be serious!” Grace gasped, gulping back sobs. Then she plunged a final dagger of guilt into her daughter. “Nova, how can you reject the truths related by church doctrine? How can you ever hope to take your rightful place in the highest kingdom of Heaven without some kind of obedience? Heavenly Father wants this for you.”
Thumping the heel of her hand to her forehead, she shifted her weight off the stool, and planted her feet on the floor. Looking at the ceiling, she struggled to calm her voice. Dully, she said, “Grace now it is you who are not listening.” Attempting to soothe her mother’s fears, she gently said, “I cannot accept that God would focus all his love on a single faction of people who have a dogmatic view of other religions and the world in general. Really now Mama, confess - don’t you tire of being told how to conduct every detail of your life? Don’t you wish, for just an instant, you could do whatever felt right in your heart? There is no individual growth potential in your paradigm of life. Mom, God loves all of us. After all, he made each of us in his own image. He gave us the Ten Commandments to live by. Who needs more?”
Grace quickly countered with tired religious rhetoric, “No darling – God’s will is translated in scripture and revealed in the Gospel. We do as we are bidden to do. God will tolerate no less from us. Have you forgotten the lessons I tried to teach you all these years?”
Nova had long ago become weary of Grace’s so-called lessons but always tried to maintain calm when speaking with her. Today would have been no different if Grace hadn’t insisted on pushing her hardheaded agenda and turning on the water works.
Forcing an even-tempered voice, Nova interjected humor where there really was none, in an attempt to diffuse the argument. The prospect of upsetting Grace further was something she strenuously wanted to avoid. She realized there was more at play here. But what was it? The subject of marriage had been an ongoing argument with the two of them since she was twenty. In a quiet tone of patience she parried with as much kindness as she could muster. “Oh Mama, please stop worrying and feeling sorry for yourself. For now, and for the rest of my life, I cannot be true to myself and follow the same path you have chosen.”
In a small weak voice Grace strained, “Nova, it’s not so hard. The Church offers everything you need.”
Realizing she was getting nowhere, she sternly broke off. In a clipped voice she finalized her thoughts, “Yes, well, it’s getting late Mom. I really must get going. We can discuss this later if you wish. However, you’ll just have to love me the way I am.” she said dully.
“But Nova, please listen for another minute. Sister Wilson’s son has invited us to dinner.”
Nova refused to answer, quietly deflecting Grace’s last comment.
“NOVA!! Are you still there?” She sounded frantic, but she always sounded like that when they fought.
In a weary but kind tone, she countered, “Mom, I had a really late night and I am navigating on only about two hours of sleep. I must get going if I am to be on time for my meeting. Please send my regrets to Sister Wilson and her son. Maybe you and I can have supper tomorrow night. Have a wonderful day. I love you. I’ll call you later.”
Delivering this final line with cheer in her voice, she put the telephone back in its cradle then stood for a moment sipping her tea. “Have a wonderful day and be damned,” she mumbled thinking inwardly: One of the meddling old biddies in her women’s group has been busy - pushing again.
Marriage was most important to her mother’s circle of friends. If their daughters didn’t find a suitable husband by their second year of college, worry set in. God forbid, if their girls were actually interested in an education. They figured a woman in her late thirties might as well be dead if she wasn’t raising broods of toe-headed children.
Sister Wilson and her other friends were always feeling sorry for Grace who had to deal with an unmarried, thirty-something, irreligious, egg-headed daughter. Career-minded young women didn’t fit well into the community; though the Church struggled to include all. Even aged widows were not safe and were pushed to remarry - a practice she found absolutely repugnant and ill advised. Thankfully, she and Rue had successfully advised Grace against going that route. She shivered at the thoughts of her mother re-marrying some old geezer who needed a caretaker.
Her mind tumbled back over her conversation with Grace. Remorse hovered in her consciousness. They had debated these topics for years. Tenaciously, Grace always used the same rhetorical attacks on her personal life. Her nasty comment about not liking men was new. Obviously, someone else’s remarks had recently sown a new seed of fear in her mind.
Wearied by Grace’s disrespectful attitude, Nova stood in the kitchen thinking things over. This, of all mornings, was not a good time for a continuation of Gracie’s World.
The stress of waking at 4 a.m. to a disturbing precognitive dream had already left Nova exhausted and irritable. She woke in a fearful state and dragged herself to the living room sofa. Until 5 a.m., she sat up trying to figure out what it meant. After asking her spirit guardian, Stephen, for guidance, she finally fell asleep. Here it was, not even 7 a.m. and she had two problems, Grace and this nagging precognitive feeling.
Moving back to the sofa, she sat down, drew her legs up and cuddled with a pillow. Meditatively starring out the window into the raging storm, her mind went back to Stephen. He had always been with her. Grace insisted she had contrived him for attention, or he was simply a figment of a child’s massive imagination. Neither was the case. To Nova, Stephen was as real as anyone else, but visible only to her. He stood sentry over her from birth, and was her unseen playmate when she was very young. Grace thought Nova had invented him because she had no siblings, or was participating in some sort of infantile idolatry. She was dead wrong.
His importance and visitations receded as she got older, but he never completely left her. When she needed him, he usually showed up or provided a sign. Life was full of parallel experiences most people would categorize as coincidence. Stephen always warned there was no such thing as a coincidence and predestination is part of our cosmic journey.
Always a radiant soul, he never grew older, appearing as a young adult in his twenties. His blue eyes projected profound wisdom. Like a handsome rebel, he was always clean-shaven his thick auburn mane was arranged in a queue fastened at the base of his neck. Connecting with her on a subtle mental level, he always encouraged her to follow God.
Grace just did not understand. Nova often wished she had been born into a family who understood and accepted her abilities for what they are - a gift. Recalling her recent trip to England, Nova shuddered imagining the invectives Grace would hurl, if she ever heard about her visit to Sir Godfrey Wilton. She would accuse Nova of worshipping false prophets, if not outright blasphemy. Thinking back, she wondered if meeting Sir Godfrey was one of Stephen’s non-coincidences.
Known as an eminent historian, Sir Godfrey Wilton was secondarily as a noted psychic. During their meeting, with no prompting, he had veered off Nova’s requested topic and instead brought up Stephen - or, so she thought. She was somewhat stymied by some of the cryptic information he presented to her, sensing this was somehow related to her 4 a.m. wakeup call.
Standing up, she pulled a clip from her pocket and applied it to her long hair, fashioning a flattened ponytail. Pulling her bathrobe around her slim waist, she scuffed into her slippers and shuffled across the room to the tall windows overlooking the street. Leaning her head against the window frame, she watched the snow tumble in heavy, sideways streamers. It was hypnotic. The frosted street lamps down the lane illuminated the frozen prisms, refracting light from one to the other like tiny sparkling laser beams.
The furnace blower engaged and roared to life. An odor of dry heat permeated the room. As if on cue, a black and white streak rocketed across the floor, as warmth began to pour through the ductwork. Her cat loved to feel the air bursting from the floor registers in the long hallway to the bedrooms.
Softly she called to him, “Snootie, did you see it is snowing outside? Come here you old toady.” She wanted to bury her face in his fur to relieve her tension. When he didn’t come to her call, she knew he probably had returned to the warmth of his basket. He had his own agenda and acquiesced to hers only if it suited him.
With a high wail, the wind hammered down the chimney. Simultaneously, another steely, intuitive pulse rammed her consciousness. Like an alternating current, the effect stunned and destabilized her calm. Her heart leapt into her throat, as her pulse quickened. Breathing in gulps, the region around her solar plexus’ vibrated and tightened. Nervously, she scanned her inner knowledge searching a reason for the prescient warning. Her eyes went to the ceiling imploring God in a prayer. Then aloud, she asked Stephen. “What the devil is this?”
Nothing came. Slow, deep breathing quelled the sickening feeling. Closing her eyes and concentrating, she willed definition to percolate to the surface. Momentarily paralyzed she stood stock still trying to analyze. Then, as quickly as the feeling came, it spun away leaving only a throbbing speck of concern.
Searching a reason for the bad vibes, she paced the floor trying to reassure herself and quell her racing heart, but for what? She got the signal, but no definition, which was unusual. Sitting down next to the window, she clinched her eyes into slits, pinching her nose, trying to define her uneasiness. Exasperated, she sat for a few more moments gathering her wits. Finally, she gave up and got to her feet.
Mentally, she asked Stephen again for an answer. Nothing came. What the hell is going on? she begged. He didn’t always answer, but neither did she sometimes listen closely enough. Stopping, she thought what emotion she would assign the sensation she felt. Anxiety and grief came to mind.
She continued at the window for a few more moments then gave up the vigil; realizing whatever it was, would eventually manifest itself. Generally, she could do little unless she could identify the prompt. The only thing she knew was something ominous was about to happen and it would rock the world. This warning was as strong as the impulse she received in 1960 when the Alaska earthquake occurred in Prince William Sound. Her mother chastised her roundly for telling her neighbors about that one, but they had felt it in Seattle when they lived on Queen Anne Hill.
Outside a flash in the clouds dissolved her thought processes. Stopping in the hallway, she mumbled out loud, “Lightning in a snowstorm?” At that moment, she became conscious of a line from Shakespeare – Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by . . . The elusive strafing of her intuition continued as she thought for a moment about the import of the verse. This was something new. Only then did she realize it might have personal implications.
A nearly inaudible, deep rumble caught her attention coming from the west. Getting louder, it plowed toward her, steam-rolling right overhead, shaking the windows like a temblor. Snootie nervously, twisted about her ankles. She picked him up and stroked his fur. His usual smug disposition seemed to melt with his rare need for the security of her arms. Crooning in his ear, she said “Easy Snoots.” He seemed exceedingly nervous, more than his normal reaction to thunder. His agitation increased. Struggling he scrambled, claws fully extended, hair standing on end. Escaping from her arms, he jumped to the hardwood floor. Sensing a larger threat, he bolted for the safety of the cavernous opening beneath the sofa, disappearing between the box pleats. Rubbing her arm where he had scratched her, she didn’t know whether to laugh or follow his lead.
“My, you are a nervous bundle of energy today. Don’t expect any more mothering from me until you calm down old man.” Softening, she continued, “Come to think of it, we’re both a bit spooked today. I wish you could share with me what you are sensing. Maybe we are both getting the same thing.”
Remembering the eggs she had left on the stove, she backtracked through the kitchen to eat her breakfast. Washing it down with lukewarm tea, she cleaned up and began preparing for her day.
Heading for the bedroom closet, she pushed her warm weather wardrobe aside kneeling to find her winter boots. Returning to the clothes rod, she fingered through widely spaced hangers looking for an appropriately warm outfit. After dressing in woolen slacks and a cable knit sweater, she returned to the kitchen. Glancing at the clock, she noted it was 8:25 a.m.
Snatching her woolen coat from the hall closet, she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Donning a winter hat and wearing her driving gloves, she headed to the door.
Just as she thought it was going to be a treacherous drive, a blade of light weakly illuminated the hardwood floor. Sunlight gleamed through the tall windows and stabbed her heart. A strange sensation spread through her chest as she felt her father’s spirit, signaling things would change.
Chapter 2
Standing amid the monuments of the family cemetery, leaves swirled about his feet as he dropped to his knees in reverent supplication. Finally, he prostrated himself spread eagle over her grave.
Elegantly decorated with floral motifs, attended by angels, the seventeenth century stone sentinels seemed to grow from the ground all around him. By his design, her monument was grander than any of the others, yet, he had let her down. His heart dropped as he thought of her legacy left in ruins, her memory sullied.
Thunder pounded the heavens and the smell of rain permeated the air. Through cataclysmic sobs, his tears wet the ground. Rain began in earnest as he lay prone inconsolably weeping.
At a distance, on the edge of the cemetery, the young man’s brother stood behind an ancient tree watching the spectacle. He sensed his sibling had lost all his pride and self-esteem. It had gone the way of his sanity. Both men bore the pain of her death, but each felt it in a different way.
Pulling his hat down over his blond hair, he turned on his heel and slowly made his way across the freshly clipped lawn. His bent form limped toward the rain-washed sidewalk where his car was parked out of sight. He thought to himself how his brother always claimed to be the stronger one, when actually he was the weaker of the two.
Climbing into his sedan, he cast a last look over his shoulder. Disgusted, by his sibling’s display, he put the vehicle in gear and slowly drove away.
The prostrated man drew himself up to his knees and cried out an oath to God and a promise to his mother. “I will make this right in your name. Mark my words - he will pay for having dishonored you.”
Waiting in another car, pulled up close to an ancient Mulberry tree, a second man looked on patiently waiting for his client to return. Jones was anxious to get on with the work he was hired to accomplish. He was not equipped to handle the “head case” this client seemed to present; but Stanton represented ready cash, and he needed the work.
Curiously watching the drama, he decided to feign sleep when Stanton returned. He didn’t want to know what was torturing him, though if he had asked, he was sure he could have been privy to all the gory details and psychological footnotes. Unless they were relevant to the assignment, he only needed the facts. Realizing Stanton’s fragile mental state, he was loathe to become embroiled in his problems and told him as much at the beginning of their association. To accomplish the job, all he wanted were vital details to build a framework. He also wanted to work alone, but Stanton insisted on participating. He was already a distraction and a terrible inconvenience. However, as long as he was paying the bills, Jones would comply with his demands.
Sighing, he pulled the train tickets from his inside pocket and looked them over as he waited. Mentally making notes of what he needed to pack, he stashed the tickets back inside his coat. Sensing Stanton was almost finished with his business Jones slunk down in the seat, pulled his collar up around his face and shut his eyes.
Rising from the grave, Stanton swept the leaves from his overcoat and placed a hat on his head. He cast a backward glance at the grave and headed for the car.
Chapter 3
Pulling out of the driveway, she noticed the snow had stripped the remaining foliage from her trees, producing a thin layer of leafy mush beneath the clean canvas of white. The previous week, the foliage had crisped-out in the late heat before fall colors could emerge. Glancing at her watch, she realized she needed to step on it to make her meeting.
A blue jay crossed the white expanse soaring to the evergreen trees at the perimeter of the yard. The storm’s ferocity had slowed and nearly ceased. An occasional snowflake appeared then vanished into the brightening sky. To the west, the towering cumulus clouds steamed across the valley interlaced with breaks of blue. This was the reason Nova loved the high desert country. If you didn’t like the current picture, all you had to do was wait - it would change.
Ten minutes later, she pulled into the museum’s parking lot. Jake’s four-wheel drive truck was parked diagonally in eight inches of snow. Pulling in alongside his rig, she emerged from the warmth of her sedan. A strong male voice called to her. Jake waited on the sidewalk and waved, motioning for her to hurry. Dressed in a high collared, shearling jacket he stomped his booted feet to stay warm. A bitter wind swept across the ground, blowing snow against the buildings.
Slamming the car door and checking the locks, she rolled up her collar against the wind. Gingerly she made a path through the dry snow, slipping slightly before she made the sidewalk. Laughing, Jake took her arm and greeted her with his jovial western drawl saying, “Whoa, Sweet Pea, don’t fall on your keister.”
Jake Elliott was rail-thin and of medium height. His wiry, dark brown hair was always immaculately combed. In his late forties, grey was just beginning to invade his temples and mustache. His gaunt face revealed deep laugh lines tracing the outside corners of his grey eyes. Seldom did he wear anything but his trademark denims and a Western shirt. As curator, he was a humble, honorable man - and Nova’s best friend.
As they walked to the building, Jake regaled her with the details of a dynamic opening he had attended in a new gallery downtown. Glancing ahead to the museum entrance, Nova noticed a distinctly Native American figure hurrying through the cold fifty yards ahead of them. She grabbed Jake’s sleeve and tugged to get his attention.
“Jake, isn’t that Dr. Bennett?” She recognized the well-known anthropologist from his photo in Anthropology Southwest. Bennett was like the rock star of anthro.
“Heck Nova, are you sure that’s not Sitting Bull?” he clucked in humor.
Socking his shoulder, she admonished him for his disrespect. “I’ll be glad to finally personally meet him. I spoke to him on the phone a couple of months ago about sponsoring a grant application. He seemed amenable and told me he would speak to me next time he met with Doc. So, that’s today I hope!” she said brightly.
“Yeah, Doc mentioned they had scheduled a meeting this morning. They’re meeting with Diane about the mummified remains we have in the basement. The tribes are asking for their return. You know - looking to do proper burials.”
“Oh yeah, Diane has been dreading this for six months. Her staff had just finished cataloguing the remains when she received the repatriation request. Dr. Benjamin has been working as the middle man between the tribes and other museums, who still have ‘dem’ bones.’” she joked. “I can’t blame the tribes for wanting the remains of their people returned.”
“Yeah, Nova, it’s always made me uncomfortable that museums harbored aboriginal remains the way they do. The first time I saw mummified remains of a Native person, I was repulsed by the disrespectful way they were so casually displayed. Thankfully, insensitive exhibitions of that nature are rare these days.”
“I agree. It makes total sense they should be repatriated.” she said, “How would we feel if someone dug up our grandparents and kept them in a museum locker? Early archaeologists really didn’t have a clue about site conservation or respect for funerary practices. Generally, they are more professional now and hopefully leave the remains where they are found.”
“Right, but grave robbers are still doing irreparable damage to sacred sites. One cretin I read about was finally prosecuted after twenty years. They knew he had been plundering and selling, but he slipped through some damned legal loophole. He was unrepentant and went right back to it when he got out of jail the first time. They nailed him good on the second try.” Jake said with satisfaction. “Pot hunting is bad enough, but stealing bones is altogether macabre.”
He held the door as they entered the museum’s lower level. A labyrinth of concrete hallways composed the basement area they fondly termed “the dungeon.”
They rounded the corner in time to see Dr. Bennett enter the elevator at the far end of the building. The door closed. Walking the building’s length, Jake punched the button. While waiting for the car to return, they discussed their latest project.
As an ethnobotanist, Nova was researching an article juxtaposing ancient botanicals, with those used by more modern medicine men. Pliny the Elder was one of the earliest naturalists included in her work. Six months before, she had applied for a grant so she could travel into Mexico and South America. Her mission was to consult with indigenous tribes, shamans, and curandeiros to compare their traditional uses of specific plant species with those mentioned in several preserved codices. The trip was only a pipe dream, but grant monies were loosening up.
She and Jake had just returned from England after consulting with some of the most knowledgeable horticulturists and ethnobotanists in the field. It was her first trip to study in England. As it turned out there was a wealth of material available at Cambridge. Kew Gardens’ rare manuscripts library also yielded botanical journals for such luminaries as John Bannister, a missionary/botanist who visited the southeastern United States in 1688. Bannister had seen the virgin forests and bio-diversity of America, long before colonization began to alter it forever. Obtaining photographic images of the journal, she was anxious to learn if he had studied plant uses of the indigenous tribes along the eastern seaboard. Her current project involved transcribing his notes.
Providing photographic backup for the project, Jake had accompanied Nova to various libraries, conservatories and herbariums around England. While she worked in the libraries, he and his wife Marian toured London. It was an opportunity of a lifetime for them all.
Their research discussion ended when the elevator door opened. As they stepped inside Jake pushed the button for the main floor, tilted his head back against the wall, and quietly watched the digital monitor. He was thoughtful about what he wanted to ask.
He let out a slow sigh and turned his eyes to Nova, “Well Sweet Pea, are you gonna to tell me what Wilton had to say when you consulted him in London? You’ve been pretty tight-lipped about your visit. If Marian had not been so insistent about touring of the Tower of London, I would have come with you. After your meeting with him you seemed awfully quiet.”
Sir Godfrey Wilton was the most renowned of living historians in Great Britain, hence his knighthood. Nova’s colleagues advised her to consult him regarding information about New World botanical explorers. Generally, sought out first for his expertise as an English historian, he was reserved about his secondary gift as a psychic. He had a small, but devoted group of adherents; and was the president of the of an inclusive society referred to as the Brotherhood of Light - an offshoot that studied Madam Blavatsky’s writings. Jake didn’t want to come off being overly concerned; so he used a strategically planned ‘off the wall’ question to cover his uneasiness.
“Come on, Sweet Pea.” he said eagerly, “Did he have a crystal ball and wear an earring?” He asked, waggling his eyebrows and cracking a dry smile. The uncharacteristic drollness of his grin made her crack-up momentarily. Amused by his veiled concern, she didn’t answer immediately, considering how much to tell him.
“It would have been interesting to witness a real psychic at work.” he urged.
Stifling a snicker, she said, “For pity sake Jake, sorry to disappoint you but there was no crystal ball or earring. Seriously, I am still processing the visit. It was quite extraordinary.”
Pausing to collect her thoughts, she said, “I know this will sound odd.”
“Why?” Jake jumped at her willingness to finally talk.
“Well, despite the fact we had never met, I immediately felt comfortable in his presence, yet there was something about him.” Hesitating she said, “It was like great creeping chills paraded down my spine. It was more like a thrill than anything sinister.”
Skeptical about his second sight, her friends in England had jokingly mentioned Wilton’s supernatural reputation. Ironically, they were unaware of her proclivities toward the same. Unpleasant reactions to her intuitive abilities by her family, prompted her to limit those with whom she shared her gift. Stephen’s guidance extended only so far. She wondered if Wilton was the teacher she had prayed for. Secretly, she fantasized he might be able to help strengthen her aptitude toward making sense of disturbing recurrent dreams.
In one particularly unnerving sequence, she lay dying beneath stained glass windows in an expansive hall. In another, she dreamed of a stone cross, surrounded by bleached meadow grasses, inscribed with blurred words she couldn’t read. Strangely, her visit with Wilton hadn’t turn up anything more about the explorers, but there was an electrifying surprise. As they stepped from the elevator, she motioned for Jake to sit on a bench in the narrow anteroom leading to the lobby. “Do you have time to sit down for a few minutes?”
He eagerly nodded, “Sure. I haven’t got anything pressing until ten.”
Settling down, she began. “Sir Godfrey reminded me of my own father. He was tall and portly like so many elderly men. The one thing that grabbed my attention was his mystical blue eyes. He had the ruddy complexion of a Scotsman. When he was younger, I bet he was quite the ladies man.” she grinned in remembrance.
Stopping a moment, she glanced at Jake wondering if she should include more of her own instinctual thoughts. Deciding to stick to the facts, she continued, “I recognized a familiar quality in his soul, and he also seemed to register a spark of recognition, but tried to hide it. He was somewhat uncomfortable with me, though he was patient and gracious.”
“So you were making the old boy tense eh? You do that to me quite often.” he said mockingly.
Narrowing her eyes in contrived annoyance and pursing her lips in humor, she continued. “When I arrived, he conducted me to the study. As I watched him I became terribly curious as to the familiarity I felt toward him. He offered me a cup of tea. As he served, he stole a quick, hard glance when he thought I was unaware, then turned away and asked: What might I do for you Ms. Denver?”
“My attention was drawn to the walnut mantel over the fireplace. It was carved in a stylized acorn motif and seemed awfully familiar. He noticed my interest and commented: Lovely, isn’t it? I had a hard time tearing my attention away from it. Finally I got down to business and explained the purpose of my visit. Then the oddest thing happened.”
“Yeah, what?” he said, with interest.
“Well, it was subtle, like a look of resignation shaded his face. He was still smiling, but it was as if he knew something he couldn’t say. What he knew, I wasn’t sure, but I was definitely struck by the fact that he knew something about me that I didn’t. He spoke to me in a low tone: You are here on more of a mission than to seek information for your research.” Suddenly I felt a wave of confused embarrassment pass though me. My thinking went foggy and I started to stammer. You, of all people, know I am seldom at a loss for words.”
“Yeah, half the time I can’t get you to shut up.” He grinned, knowing how her enthusiasm sometimes got the better of her. “Go on.”
“When I regained my composure I told him I was looking for authoritative resources on New World botanical explorers. I explained Simon Baxter at the Kew had recommended him as an expert source for locating obscure manuscripts. So really, that’s all I wanted to know, nothing more. I mean for pity sake, the man is a renowned English historian, recognized and knighted by the Queen of England!” she chuckled lightly. Pensively she continued, “Then things got very strange, I felt oddly numb and the atmosphere popped and rarified as if a new energy entered the room.”
“I don’t know what you mean Nova.”
Trying to clarify, she said, “I don’t think he really heard my comments about Simon at all. Then quietly, almost under his breath, the timber of his voice changed and his remarks became oddly esoteric. He said: Child, in the near future you are destined to find a man you seek. Life relationships are not static. We are all interconnected eternally, learning new lessons from one lifetime to the next. His manner was . . . um . . . automatic, as if the information was unbidden.”
Jake cleared his throat. He was surprised to see an emotional response in her green eyes. Sniffing slightly, she continued, “I mulled this information, trying to formulate an intelligent response but couldn’t find one. I thought he might be talking about Stephen, but I wasn’t sure. I certainly don’t expect to find Stephen outside of our normal relationship. Why would I? So I was bewildered by his comments, especially the information about various incarnations.” A sardonic tone entered her voice, and her eyes went hard. “Geez, maybe he has been talking to Grace.”
“Maybe he wasn’t talking about Stephen at all.”
“I wondered that too, but then who could he be talking about?