Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) (2 page)

I
n
the
anno domini
1300, midway upon the journey of his life, Dante found himself within a forest dark, for the
straightforward
pathway had been lost
. . .

Precisely 699 years later, I wandered as well. And
found
myself.

Only it wasn’t the inferno I entered.

And God had nothing to do with it. This was more likely the Goddess, subtle and beckoning.

As someone who—up to that point in her life—had never gambled, I claim full responsibility for abandoning the straightforward pathway.

I rolled the dice, and I have no regrets.

Exactly on the eve of one of Florida’s most prolific hurricane seasons, while everyone boarded shut their windows against the wrath of Hurricane Erin, I left mine wide open. And magic stormed in.

Metaphorically speaking, the timing was impeccable.

I had no time to bother with trivialities such as shutting windows. Across the Atlantic, a family emergency demanded me. Although back then I still had not learned how to face Death, I rushed to France and my grandmother’s side.

Beyond the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, over the somber peaks of the Pyrénées, down into the dampness of the Camargue, across fields of fragrant lavender, in a room where someone
had
remembered to shut the windows against the scorching July sun, my
grand-mère
Joséphine was dying.

Her delirious eyes swept the darkness in the far corner. “
Zut!
Attend toi!
” she spat. “
Je ne suis encore prête.
”

Chills ran down my spine. “Who are you talking to Joséphine?”

“
La Mort.
” Her voice echoed hollowness.

Resigned looks spread across the faces of my family. My father bowed his dark (despite the age), luscious crown of hair and covered his eyes. My mother’s aquamarine eyes welled up with tears, like the sea on high tide, and my younger brother Alex, a born skeptic as myself, turned to see if he could actually catch a glimpse of Death.

I did too.

In the far corner, ghastly folds of shadow quivered.

Alex’s eyes met mine and he shrugged.

Joséphine’s gnarled hand gripped my arm and pulled me closer. My knees met the side of her bed, and yet she kept on drawing me to her. Choking in sorrow, I bent down to give her my undivided attention.

“
Ma petite miette—,
” she sighed, short of breath.

“Joséphine—” My shoulders shook with grief.

“I kept you in the dark. I thought I would protect you. But how do we love that which we don’t know?” She unclasped her beloved amber pendant from her fragile, birdlike neck and pressed it into my hand. It pulsed warm with her heat. “I renounced The Craft and now it’s too late! A lifetime with no magic wasn’t worth it.” With extraordinary strength for someone in such weak condition she shook her head. “But you must rekindle the power!” Her eyes bulged. “
Promets-moi!
”

In one inhuman last effort, her shoulders pushed off the pillows. “
Promets-moi! Ma petite miette!
You must return to magic!”

Tears spilled from my eyes, her face liquefied, and I nodded frantically—against all my principles. I gripped her cold hands in mine. Pain flared as the amber pendant cut into the tender flesh of my palm. “
D’accord,
Joséphine. I promise.”

Her shoulders collapsed back on the pillows. “
Merci.
”

*

The very first time my grandfather set eyes on Joséphine he thought, “
Le premier soufflé du Divin était la Femme. Et voilà, elle vient.
” The Divine first breath was Woman. And here She comes.

And I think:
The Divine must have been lonely. We are born alone. We die alone.

Despite my grandfather’s romantic heart, I remain guarded. Why waste time believing in soul mates?

It is perhaps because the Divine created us in her image? And if the Divine is Love, therefore are we, as well, Love? Moreover, in our desire to express our true nature, then aren’t we doomed to Love?

Grief does not heal prettily. Especially when morbidly and persistently poked, it scabs. Then, if we are lucky, it finally scars.

After the burial, this sort of thinking flew with me back to the Florida Panhandle where Hurricane Erin had made landfall only days earlier.

Pensacola was still on its knees. Surprisingly, my place had sustained no damage.

*

A month later, I kept my promise and took my first wayward step.

A
yellow light blinked furiously as I sped through the intersection and landed on the Gulf Breeze Bridge with the car’s shock absorbers cringing. The speedometer read eighty-five miles per hour.
Oddio!
Adrenaline jolted through me like a strong buzz. I shot a glance at the rearview mirrors almost expecting the flashing lights of a police car. I caught sight of my own makeup-free eyes instead. I frowned, puzzled by their unusual aqua clarity; so much like my mother’s.

 
Some people are here for answers while others only have questions,
tesoro mio
.
Her voice echoed in my head, her eyes spiraled back into mine, and I smiled wryly.

My heart and mind struggled in disagreement. I felt like the rope in a tug o’ war game. This time I
wanted
to change my mind, but I feared my heart.

My brow creased as I raced across the deserted bridge. I eased my foot off the gas pedal in a futile attempt to delay my appointment. A pang of disappointment shot through my gut. Second-guessing my promises is not something I do. Usually, once I make a choice, I stick with it—often despite vociferous warning signs.

To make matters worse, the Category 3 hurricane had re-tailored the Florida Panhandle’s hems and destroyed many homes on Navarre Beach, my friend Evalena’s included. She and Rex now dwelled in Gulf Breeze, in a house lent them by a friend—my destination only a few miles ahead, according to the crumpled napkin I had scribbled with hasty directions. I hate not knowing where I am headed. I hate changes in my habitual routine, and I can’t believe I do what I do for a living with such irrational fears as faithful companions.

After a last glance I tossed the napkin back on the passenger seat where it landed in my overstuffed bag and soaked the sweat off a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino. I cranked the air conditioner and wondered grumpily about this new place Evalena now called home. Energetically speaking, I questioned whether the atypical environment, with its unfamiliar vibes, might possibly affect my past life regression.

I wondered whether it would be a good idea to postpone the session until Evalena’s house was restored.
Yeah. Right.
With all the destruction the hurricane had left in its path, the Panhandle faced at least a year of intense reconstruction.

I could never wait that long.

I still churned about the whole deal and idiotically questioned Evalena’s metaphysical powers. The absurdity of my own doubts shook my head. I needed answers now.

I braked the car to a halt in front of a low bungalow painted in an extremely unsuited-for-the-circumstances jolly yellow. I pushed my cheap plastic sunglasses up my head and heard a cracking noise. Under the mass of my unruly hair, the sunglasses snapped and broke in two. Fine. Cringing with pain, I raked the ruined pieces off my head along with some hair, tossed them on the backseat, and finally killed the engine, leaving my feet on the pedals. I leaned to rest my chin on my white-knuckled hands, still clenching the sweaty steering wheel. Through the bug-speckled windshield, I silently observed the house.

My heaving chest echoed the engine’s struggle to cool down. I resented the jovial yellow.

Nobody in sight, I could still bail . . .

But didn’t. I had a promise to keep.

The weak end of daylight dimly lit the living room where tottering, knee-high stacks of books edged an erratic path to a rolltop desk. A brass incense burner towered over several carelessly scattered bills. Tendrils of the ever-lingering moldy odor of all that is wet in Florida swirled, almost visible in the milky light.

Evalena was her usual self: part matter-of-fact, part esoteric. Gray streaked her bright auburn hair like reality creeping into fantasy. The pink chenille sofa she motioned me to lie on had seen better days, but once I sank in, the faded cushions felt familiar and comfortable. Somewhat reassured, I made an effort to relax and inhaled deeply. My nostrils flared with the pungent smell of eucalyptus. Evalena eased me into her warm energies and began to slowly rub Tiger Balm on my third eye. She followed with a soothing foot massage while her calm but firm voice walked me through the necessary steps to fade back in time.

I closed my eyes and trusted her voice. “Imagine a sphere of golden, warm light at the bottom of your feet and a second, identical one above your head,” she guided me soothingly. “Now, move them simultaneously, about one foot away from the extremities of your body. Focus. Take deep breaths, and when you exhale, push both spheres one more foot away.”

The concentration came slowly. I struggled to split my focus between both my extremities at once, finding it incredibly difficult. Evalena sensed my hesitation and began to massage my shoulders. Lowering her voice, she instructed me to push the bright energies away, again and again and again, until one rested about six feet above my head and the other the same distance beneath my feet.

It felt like quite an accomplishment to be able to control the luminescent spheres that floated weightlessly in midair. I felt the pride of a magician but with no tricks, just my will.

So it had always been within reach . . .

Under Evalena’s instruction, I began to count backwards from one hundred to one.

*

Stairs appeared and I descended the narrow spiral staircase, surrounded by damp stone walls. As I slowly made my way down, my left hand helped me balance. The darkness in front of me dissipated with every step, yet remained impenetrable and dense at arm’s length. I could sense it closing silently behind me.

An old clock tick-tocked in the background. Fading time?
Or perhaps my only conscious link to the present?

I felt no fear. My clear mind focused on counting the numbers backwards, leaving little room to dwell in either apprehension or expectation. The temperature dropped, cooling with each descending step I took. A cold chill uncoiled at the base of my spine, crawled upward, and wrapped itself at the back of my neck. Finally, I set foot on one last step and counted:
One.

I stood in front of a closed door. I felt as though I had reached a long-forgotten cellar, abandoned since the beginning of time.

“Describe the door.”

I heard my voice answer from a distant present, “It’s a dark wooden door, old and beaten, with a brass handle on the left. I’m going to have to move back to be able to open it. It will swing inwards, toward me. I don’t see a keyhole, either.”
But I don’t need a key,
my mind whispered.

“Porzia, open the door,” she commanded.

With a sudden impulse of confidence, my hand wrapped around the cold, tarnished handle and turned. The door gave silently.

*

A clear blue sky fills my vision while the strength of a warm breeze supports me above distant, deep-blue waters; not a cloud in sight, just warm sunshine.

“
Mamma mia!
Evalena, I’m flying!”

“Have you got a broom?” she asked, amused.

“No, I’m using my body,” I replied, my arms outstretched like an airplane. It feels a tad ridiculous.

“Where are you?”

“Somewhere warm and bright, above water.”

“Are you alive?”

Hmm, good question. How would I know?
“I think I’m in between lives.”

“Do you see anybody?”

“No.”

“Porzia, do you need to stay there?” Evalena asked.

“No, I don’t think so.” I sensed this to be an introduction to what I was about to see and learn about myself.
No need to linger here.

“Ok, then go back up in the sky, and as you fly away, time comes with you.”

I drift ever upward into a darkening sky until I am surrounded by blackness.

Soundlessly, I land in a dimly lit room, like an intruder on a theater stage while a scene is unfolding. I hear soft voices and listen for a few seconds to two men discussing my future. I know one to be my father, a distinguished older Japanese aristocrat, and the other, my future consort. I see the woman I was in this particular life hide behind an inlaid wooden screen. I shift to be closer to her, like a silent shadow in a play I have acted in as a young Japanese woman with shiny black hair, wrapped in an elegant red kimono. A hint of sweet jasmine flutters in the air. The vividness of the scent amazes me.

I know every thought she has.

She’s listening, trying to catch a glimpse of her future husband. Outlined in a foreign blue and gold uniform, his shoulders are solid. He’s handsome, even if not Asian, very exotic, and surrounded by a powerful, beckoning aura.

The scene is so captivating that I barely hear Evalena’s voice ask me to move ahead in time, just a few weeks.

“I have been given to him.” Surprise and panic tangle my vocal cords. Something isn’t right. “He’s hurting me, Evalena—” I stir in my discomfort. “He’s forcing himself on me.” I shift on the couch to get away. “He’s raping me.”
Bastard,
I think
, he doesn’t care about my pain.
“He’s got blue eyes,” I whisper to myself while staring through my own tears straight into his icy glare. The pain he’s inflicting on me quickly builds his lust; it shatters his ice, melts away his liquid coldness, until my pain becomes unbearable and his eyes blaze.

“Ok, Porzia, you must leave.” When it finally reached me, Evalena’s command was choking with concern.

I tore myself from painful tentacles and traveled into darkness again.

“Are you safe?”

“Yes, I’m safe. I’m in a garden surrounded by massive stone walls. I see mountains in the distance. There are flowers blooming around and shoji doors facing east. I can breathe the crisp morning air. It must be springtime because the mountains are snowcapped but I’m surrounded by flowers.”
I like this garden, and I don’t want to leave.

Sadness sweeps over me in a longing sensation I will have to examine again . . . maybe in this lifetime, but in any case, sooner than expected.

Gently, Evalena asks me to drift away, toward a happy time.

All of a sudden, I feel lulling water. I balance on bare feet on the gently rolling floor of a wooden boat. A sunset spreads in front of me while I tenderly rock a chubby baby in my arms. The boat is my home.

Evalena does not ask me anything. Sensing my peace, she lets me bask in the warm memory.

The baby stirs in my arms. He’s a boy, Asian, not quite one year old. He’s happy to play with my hair and touch my cheeks with his pudgy hand. I am loved unconditionally.

There is no father.
Am I the woman of the previous life?

I feel the weight of war in my near past. The agony of slow death is a wet, blood-painted memory; the stench of piled bodies left to rot in filthy ditches is stagnant in my nostrils. Along a country road an endless line of slow-walking figures, shrouded in rags, chokes in oppressive smoke. With her feet wrapped in bloody bandages, a young girl in front of me struggles along, holding her mother’s torn arm like a precious rag doll; it is all she has left.

It’s an exodus. A Moviola-paced run from hell to purgatory. There is no heaven. Nobody around me believes in it anymore. Chinese soldiers have raped, brutalized, and tortured us out of pure hatred, stripping us of hope, dignity, and our future. Nobody believes it will ever be over.

But I survive. The tragic memories will seal into scars when I finally reach Hong Kong. I will sail for peace on my wooden boat.

Shifting my gaze away from the sinking sun, I focus on a thousand boats like mine, all content like me to merely roll on the breathing water.

“Porzia.”

“Hmm . . . ?”

“Porzia, move closer—closer to see your quest in this lifetime.”

I embrace darkness again, knowing with profound certainty that my child in that life is somebody dear to me today.

Now, that’s a thought.

Suddenly, I see an older man wearing a powdered, poufy wig. His enraged gray eyes are screaming in my face along with the venom in his voice. I am a disgrace to the family. He’s furious; I cringe when his spit hits my powdered cheeks.

My firstborn is a girl I have named Marie Claire, after my mother. My husband is about to explode. I have not given him a male heir.

Uh, is that a fake mole on his upper lip?

Disgusted, I jerk my face away.

“Where are you?” Evalena asks, concerned.

“France,” I answer, “in a baroque bedroom. My husband is outraged! I have failed his expectations . . .” Speed blurs time, and images fast-forward through my mind. “He has locked me up . . . I am alone most of the time . . . He only comes in to try to conceive a boy child. I am not allowed to see my daughter, but I hear her cry with the nursemaid.”

Pitiful. What a disaster.
Who the hell is this woman?

Although I don’t like myself, I’m fascinated by the platinum-blond ringlets piled high up on my head and the angelic blue eyes, made even brighter by all the tears.

This time I see it all clearly, as if in a silent movie. The scenes run through my memory like rolling subtitles. My closed eyelids tremble as I fill in blank pages with events as they unfold: My husband’s indifference when Pierre-Jacques, my son, is finally born appalls me; his cruel, twisted sexual abuse toward the maids and me turns my stomach. I can’t cope with it any longer. I vow revenge, and a plot to escape evolves in my mind.

I see myself running through a dark forest wearing a black, hooded cape. A strand of blond hair sparks bright against the velvet night. Behind me the ostentatious castle disappears against the thickening wall of fragrant trees. I finally reach a small wooden cabin with a lonely window glowing in soft candlelight.

Xavier is opening the door.

The hard impact of his bare golden chest scorches my frozen hands, like holy water on sin. His coal eyes, feverish with desire, are all I yearn for. Impatient hands unfasten my cape; the hood falls, unleashing a golden cascade of curls down the swell of my backside, and I am naked in his arms. His hands cup my face and his mouth hungrily captures mine.