by Max Ehrlich
The room was in absolute silence. He stirred uneasily. He told himself that it was all very theatrical, part of the trade. All these people, had some kind of ritual, and Verna Bird was no different. Yet, he was disturbed. He wished she would stop staring at him with those unblinking blue eyes.
Finally the lids began to droop over the eyes, and she started to breathe deeply. He could see that she had gone into her trance. He waited.
For a minute there was nothing but total silence. He had to hand it to Verna Bird and her secretary. They knew how to prolong an effect. Candlelight, and shadows dancing in the room. The medium meditating. They were giving him a run for his seventy-five dollars. Another minute passed. He waited for something to happen. He glanced at Elva Carlsen. She was sitting to one side, straight and rigid in her chair, hands folded, watching the clairvoyant. He was about to say something to her, to ask her what happened next, but she shook her head before he could speak. Again, she put her finger to her lips in warning.
Then, suddenly, Elva spoke to the clairvoyant.
“We have a soul here.”
“Yes,” said Verna Bird. “I see the soul.”
“And we have a body which houses the soul.”
“I see the body.”
“Do you see others before this?”
“I see others. The bodies are different, and they live at different times. They live and they die, according to God’s will. And the old soul passes from one to the other.”
“Tell us about the bodies you see.”
“I now address the body before me, which now possesses the soul. I speak of your past lives. I see you first over three thousand years ago. You live in the land of Egypt, and you are a Hittite slave. It is the time of the nineteenth dynasty. Your name is Chalaf.
“You are a skilled worker in stone, and you labor in the hot sun on such temples as the Great Hypostyle Hall at Karnak and the funerary temple called Ramesseum at Thebes. You are given barely enough to eat, and often you feel the whip of the overseer.
“Then you, and hundreds of others, are put to work on a great statue of Rameses. It stands at Abu Simbel, overlooking the river of the Nile. It is a colossal figure, reaching high into the sky.
“It is a hot day, just after the Nile has flooded, and the valley is green. On the river itself men glide by in reed boats, stopping to set snares in the thickets of papyrus so as to trap water birds for the fattening pens. But you, Chalaf, are not concerned with these. Your task is to labor on the colossus from dawn to sunset. You know only the whip, and the backbreaking weight of stone, and the hot hammer of the sun. The giant figure of Rameses is almost finished on this day. He sits on his throne, majestic and serene, his eyes closed in benediction. There are other carved figures beneath him, clustered at his feet. These are others of the royal family, and it is here that you are occupied—at the moment, polishing stone.
“High above you, men are dragging stone blocks up the ramps by means of reed ropes. Suddenly, they lose control of one of the blocks. It topples off the ramp. It comes bouncing down directly at you. You try to leap out of the way, but it is too late. It does not crush you, but a corner of the stone block strikes you in the hip and knocks you down.
“You lie face up in the sun. There is excruciating pain in your left hip. You try to get up. You cannot move. The chief overseer, known by the name of Bak, comes over to you. He shouts at you to rise. You try, but you cannot. You are faint with the pain in your side. He strikes you with the whip, again and again, but it is no use.
“You, Chalaf, are no longer of any use to Pharaoh. Bak decrees that you will lie at the feet of Rameses until the sun kills you. Then you will be left in the fields to be devoured by the animals and birds of prey.
“But it happens that a lady of the court comes up the river by barge. She is carried ashore by royal litter, and she sees you lying in the sun. In her eyes there is pity. Or perhaps it is something else, because you are a handsome man, with black hair and a curving Hittite nose and a lean young body. She calls the chief overseer and orders that you be offered to the Nile.
“And so it is done. Bak orders men to tie stones to your hands and feet. They place you on a litter of reeds. You smile at the lady; your eyes thank her for her mercy. She smiles back. You are not afraid to die. You remember a previous life in the Old Kingdom, when you yourself were of royal birth, a chief official of the Royal Household. Death is a sleep, and you will live many lives to come. Perhaps in one of them you will again meet this royal princess. She will be some other woman, and you will be some other man, but your souls will know each other….
“Now two strong men lift you and slide you from the litter into the water. And you go down, down, into the dark depths, until you reach the bottom….”
Verna Bird paused. There was no sound except for her long, steady breathing and the slight whir of the tape recorder. Her eyes remained closed. Then Elva Carlsen said, “Are there other bodies you see? Other past lives?”
“I see others. But there are too many shadows to tell much. I see you again as a slave, but this time in a Roman galley. Blond, great of body, from the north, from Gaul. Your name is Vercinex. There is a great storm off Crete, and you perish at sea with all the others. I can see no more of this particular life….”
Again she fell silent. And he thought, sweating, this is wild. Chalaf, Vercinex, it was all nonsense. But then, in both cases, he had ended up drowning. And then there was that bit about getting hurt in the hip….
For a full two minutes Verna Bird was silent. Peter glanced at Elva Carlsen. Finally he said, “Is that the end?” She glared at him for desecrating the silence. Again she put her finger to her lips. And suddenly Verna Bird said, “I see another body.”
“Does the body have a name?”
“Makoto Asata.”
“When does this body exist?”
“All this weighs heavily upon you. And you, Makoto Asata, on this day you find this life unbearable. You decide to seek death, knowing that you will later live another life. If the next life is even a little better, you will have made a good decision. So you make the pilgrimage to the top of Fujiyama. It is a long and difficult climb, in view of your infirmity, and the pain in your left side is excruciating. But at last you reach your destination. And you throw yourself into the boiling cauldron, into the crater.”
The clairvoyant paused. For almost a full minute she said nothing. Then Elva Carlsen said, “Is there another past life you see?”
“I see one more,” said Verna Bird. “Your soul has traveled here and waited a hundred years before it finds a new home. You are an Indian boy named Red Horse, and you are of the Pawnee tribe. When you become of age, you will be a warrior.
“But one day tragedy comes to you. Your tribe is at war with another. On this day, your warriors bring captives back. Some are tortured and burned. But as is the custom, some are given to the sport of the boys. The prisoners are tied to trees, and the young boys are allowed to kill them by shooting at them with bows and arrows. Thus, they may not only test their skills, but also taste the thrill of killing an enemy. The objective is not to kill the prisoner immediately, but to place your arrows so that he suffers and still stays alive.
“You enter this exciting game, and you are better than all the others. You walk up to the victim to extract your arrows so that you may use them again. As you do so, one of the other boys lets an arrow go too soon. Just as you step in front of the target, you are pierced in the left side, and you fall. Blood gushes from the wound.
“You hover between life and death for many days. Finally, you recover. But now your life has changed. The arrow has crippled you. You can walk only with difficulty. And run not at all.
“After that, you will grow to the age of the young warrior. But you cannot fulfill yourself. You cannot hunt with the others. When the war parties go out, you are left at home to stay with the women. It is more than you can bear. Death is better than a life like this.
“One night, you h
ave a dream. You have dreamed of how you will die. And you know you must reenact this dream. Otherwise your soul in afterlife will be in torment forever. The following night while you are asleep, you rise. You go to the shore of the lake nearby and pick out a canoe. It is autumn and the water is cold, very cold. You know that because of your infirmity you cannot swim very far. You sit in the canoe and take in your last sight of the world. Then you pick up your hatchet and chop a hole in the bottom of the birch canoe. It sinks. You start to swim, but not far. You want the lake to embrace you. And finally, you go down, down, into the muck and the weeds. And it is the end of this life….”
Peter shivered. My God, he thought. A classic case of Ondinnonk. He stared at Verna Bird. How would she know anything about this? Was it just a coincidence? Perhaps. He made a mental note to check the Pawnees, to see if they practiced dream reenactment.
Verna Bird was silent for a long time. Then Elva Carlsen asked, “Is there another life after that?”
“I see none.”
Then Peter heard himself say, “There’s another one. I know there is.”
“I see no other. Except the body now present here.”
“Before me,” he croaked. “A life just before this one. Who was I then? What was my name?”
“There is nothing,” said Verna Bird. “I see no one. Only darkness.” He sat back sweating. His collar felt tight around his throat, and he loosened it. His temples throbbed. He had an impulse to go to Verna Bird, there on the chaise, and shake her out of her trance, shout at her, demand that she perform a little more, tell him the rest. Then he heard Elva Carlsen say, “You have told him of his past lives. Now, this body has asked for a Spiritual Healing reading.” A pause, and then: “Do you have one for him?”
“I do.”
“How can he heal himself?”
“There are ghosts who torment him. He must go back and confront them, and then he will be free.”
“And that is all?”
“No,” said Verna Bird. “There is more. He has been chosen. Once this is done, he will become a prophet. For he has a message to the world. And it has been given to him by God.”
Suddenly the reading was over. Verna Bird opened her eyes. Quickly her secretary blew out the candles, then went to the windows and opened the shutters. The room was flooded with the white-hot light of a Southern California afternoon. Outside, the two Siamese cats, Yin and Yang, were chasing each other around the edge of the empty swimming pool.
Verna Bird stretched her arms and yawned. Then she smiled and said to Elva, “Well, Elva? Was it a good reading?”
“Marvelous,” said Elva. She removed the tape from the machine, wrote something on it, and put it into the classified container. “This one was very interesting, Verna.”
Peter stared at her. “You don’t know what you just told me?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, dear. I never know what I tell people when I’m in a trance. Once in a while, I’ll listen to one of the tapes if Elva says it’s interesting. But I couldn’t possibly listen to all the readings I’ve given over the years. After all, there are hundreds.” She turned to her secretary. “How many exactly, Elva?”
“Eighteen hundred and seventy-seven.”
Verna Bird smiled. “You see? Besides, the readings are important only to my clients, not to me. Whatever it was I said, dear, I hope it didn’t upset you.”
“No,” he said.
“I’m glad. I always give an honest reading, no matter what. I couldn’t help it, even if I tried. Only a fraud consistently gives everybody good news—the kind people want to hear. Sometimes people get hysterical, call me a liar or a fake. Film people, for example, get very emotional about their readings. I had a movie star in here the other day, a woman, who almost—well, never mind.”
Suddenly her attention was distracted by something going on outside the window, by the two cats running around the edge of the pool.
“Elva, have you noticed? Yang looks a little thin.”
“I know. He doesn’t eat as well as Yin.”
Verna Bird looked worried. “Maybe we ought to try him with that special cat food. The one with the liver concentrate and all those vitamins.”
“All right, I’ll see if I can pick it up at the supermarket.” Then she moved to the door and opened it. “Our next client will be here at any moment, Verna. You’d better prepare yourself.”
Verna Bird nodded. Then she smiled at Peter. “Goodbye, dear. And good luck.”
The secretary led him down the corridor. He followed her in a kind of daze. He heard himself mumble “goodbye,” and started to open the door. Then he heard her say gently:
“Mr. Proud, you forgot something.”
“Yes?”
“The fee. That’ll be seventy-five dollars.”
Chapter 10
When he got back to the Summit Plaza, Edna handed him a phone message. It was from Sam Goodman, and marked Important. Sam wanted to meet him for lunch the next day. He suggested the Sunset Room of the Holiday Inn just off the San Diego Freeway. If Peter could not make it, he was to call Sam’s office and leave a message to that effect. Otherwise, Sam would go directly to the motel.
When Peter walked into the Sunset Room the next day, Sam was already seated at a table. When they had ordered a drink, Sam came quickly to the point.
“Pete, I’ve been thinking of your situation. You’ve gone the orthodox route, and nobody’s been able to help you. But I think there’s another approach.”
“Yes?”
“Ever hear of Dr. Hall Bentley?”
The name sounded familiar—it was a name in the news—but he couldn’t place it. He shook his head.
“Bentley’s one of the top parapsychologists in the country. Used to be at Berkeley but split off to conduct his own private practice and research. He has an office right here in Los Angeles, and he’s just back from some research project in Europe. He’s an expert in Psi phenomena.”
“Psi?”
“Stands for psychic phenomena. Men like Bentley, and Rhine at Duke, and Ian Stevenson at the University of Virginia are working in studies of the human mind, but far beyond anything we already know. That is, anything we can prove by any known methods or define by known physical laws. Areas like clairvoyance, telepathy, hypnosis, ESP, psychokinesis, telekinesis. I suppose you can define these fields as occult. But parapsychologists like Bentley are solid scientists and highly respected by their peers.”
“Interesting,” said Peter. “But how can he help me?”
“He’s an expert on hypnosis. The important thing is for you to kick these fantasies you get in your sleep. Maybe he can do it for you.”
Peter stared at Sam. “You really think it’s possible?”
“Could be. People have been hypnotized into getting rid of all kinds of problems that bug them. Maybe it would work in this case. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”
Peter thought about it a moment, then shrugged. “Why not? I’ve tried everything else.”
“Exactly. I’ll set everything up with Bentley. He’s not a close friend of mine, but I know him. He’s a very busy man, and I’m not sure he’ll take on any new patients. But I’ve accepted some of his people at the Sleep Lab, and he owes me a favor. I won’t tell him what it’s all about—you go in cold and tell him in your own way. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Incidentally, he’s written an article that might interest you. You’ll find it in last month’s issue of Parapsychology.” There was a little grin on Sam Goodman’s face. “It’s called ‘The Case for Reincarnation.’ As you may gather, he’s interested in the subject.”
“By the sound of the title, he believes in it.”
“Not exactly. He simply says he’s got an open mind on it. Makes a number of assumptions, and then—well, you’d have to read it for yourself. Anyway, he’s already alienated a lot of his peers—those in the orthodox establishment, I mean. This in spite of the brilliant work he’s done in his field. Some of them
have been calling him a charlatan. But the fact is, they really don’t like an open mind. It frightens them.”
He picked up the magazine at the library and read the article.
Bentley began with a prologue—his own gut reaction to the subject, purely personal, purely subjective.
“It seems incredible to me,” he wrote, “and it depresses me to find the western world clinging to the dread of death instead of the hope of life. I am not a religious man, and nobody has proved to me that God exists. But it’s hard to believe that we simply are born, we suffer, and we die. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. It is hard to believe that this is all there is.
“For if this is so, what are we doing here in the first place? For what purpose, what reason? Simply to eat, sleep, defecate, fornicate, love and hate others, suffer pain, enjoy a little pleasure, and then die? Must life be so hopeless, because no matter how we live it, death ends it?
“When we die, we die, we are told. Death is the end. But is it?
“I, frankly, do not believe it. I believe, as a rational man, that we must be here for some higher reason, some greater and continuing purpose. Men have always been aware, on some deep and mystical level, that there is another part of him that has nothing to do with logical thinking, but is something far beyond that.”
But all this, wrote Bentley, was simply an expression of faith on his part. What he proposed now was to examine the entire idea of reincarnation as a scientist, coldly and objectively.