by Kathy Miner
“Is there a message you want me to deliver to someone?”
Yes.
“The baby’s father?”
No.
“Okay. Someone else, then?”
She waited, but the woman seemed to be struggling to stay connected. Unless Cass sailed directly over a restless shipwreck, she didn’t often encounter spirits on the water – one of the reasons she spent so much time on her boat now. These days, the spirit presence onshore was overwhelming, both visitors from across the veil, and those poor, earthbound souls that didn’t yet realize their physical bodies had died. This woman was of the former group, and it made Cass wonder where she had come from.
“Did you die here, on the lake?”
No.
“Hmm.” Cass frowned. “Can you show me where you’re from? I sense that’s an important part of your message.”
In answer, a brisk breeze stirred the air around them. Dry air, scented with pine and something fresh and indefinable – Cass had a strong impression of a high mountain meadow. As soon as her mind made that connection, she saw a distinctive, white-capped peak and recognized it from pictures.
“Pikes Peak? Is that Pikes Peak?”
The woman’s Yes was so faint, Cass could barely detect it. She faded immediately, leaving Cass unsettled. That had been Pikes Peak; she was sure of it. She waited a few more minutes, hoping the woman would return, then got up to tend to her mainsail again.
A stiff breeze had followed in the wake of the squall, noticeably colder than before, and she adjusted her sails to catch it. Just before the squall hit, she’d spotted the Point Betsie Lighthouse on the Michigan shore, and unless something else unexpected arose, she should be able to make South Manitou Island by late afternoon. The wind cooperated beautifully, sending the 26 foot MacGregor flying over the water. Of the boats left abandoned in the marina, Veda had chosen it as a “good beginner boat” for Cass, something she could handle alone, although it was no beauty, nor was it as stable as a larger, heavier boat would be in rough conditions. Faults aside, Cass loved it, and sailing solo was an unexpected joy in troubled times. The absolute peace, the intimacy between her, the boat, and the lake, and the sense of freedom from the problems on land all combined into a deeply satisfying surprise from the Universe.
For a time, the endless adjustments of sailing kept her from wondering why a spirit from her brother’s home in Colorado would seek her out. There were rules – or as Veda liked to say in her best pirate accent, “More what you’d call ‘guidelines’ than actual rules.” Typically, spirits stayed connected to the location where they had either lived or died. Occasionally, a spirit would attach itself to a living person, and even more infrequently, a very strong entity could traverse great distances to interact with the living. If the dark-haired woman truly was from Colorado, she must have been a force to be reckoned with in life. And she must have something very important to convey.
Like most of the other natural-born mediums Cass had met, she’d learned the rules only after a great deal of confusion and fear. Her childhood had been filled with a series of escalating shocks, as she began to realize the people around her weren’t experiencing what she was experiencing, and her adolescence had been a swift spiral down into hell. What a relief it had been to learn that she could control her interactions with spirit, that she could call the shots. Veda, her mentor in all things, had taught her.
“It’s like that Julia Roberts character in Pretty Woman, you know? The hooker that landed Richard Gere? It’s like her hooker rules: you say who, you say when, you say where.”
Cass had nodded, though she hadn’t known. A movie about a prostitute who got the guy wasn’t approved viewing for a minister’s daughter. Veda was a movie fanatic, and even though she frequently used films Cass had never even heard of to illustrate her points, Cass usually got the gist. She learned how to block unwanted interactions, learned how to protect herself with white light and prayer, learned how to create a barrier between herself and endless interruptions from the spirit world. It was like putting her phone on “Do Not Disturb,” and the reprieve had saved her life.
Now, years later, she could look back on her younger self and marvel that she hadn’t gone insane. By the time she was ten, she had stopped talking about the spirits that came to her. By the time she was twelve, she was using alcohol to cope with the pain of her fall from adored baby of the family to accused liar and chronic trouble-maker. The booze had the side benefit of blunting the spirit activity she experienced, or she was certain she wouldn’t have made it through adolescence alive. On her thirteenth birthday, some kind of door had been thrown open, and spirits came from everywhere to badger her: Help me contact my wife – I need to tell her I’m okay, so she can stop grieving and get on with her life. You need to get in touch with my kids – I told them not to sell my house, and I meant it! Tell my brother I love him – it’s not his fault, and I know that now… And so it went, on and on, day and night. Ironic, that even now she credited alcohol abuse with saving her life.
Just after her sixteenth birthday, she’d walked out her parents’ front door and out of their lives. Jack had been in seminary then, but even when he was home, they didn’t talk. Cass had been so finished with their disappointment, their distrust. She’d spent a few months on the streets in Milwaukee, picking pockets and busking for cash, but a brush with the cops had set her in motion again. She’d lifted a fat wallet down by the marina, and following an intuitive hunch that couldn’t be blunted by alcohol, she’d bought an expensive ticket for the ferry to Muskegon, Michigan. There, in the Lake Express lobby, she’d met Veda.
The older woman had looked like a rotund circus tent, draped in layers of fringed and brightly colored fabric, and she’d checked her watch as Cass had approached. “Spirits called that one to the minute, didn’t they?” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Veda, and I have to tell you, the spirits have been buggin’ the dickens out of me about you for quite some time.”
Cass had taken her hand automatically – you didn’t shed sixteen years of deeply ingrained courtesy overnight. The contact had made her scalp tingle with warmth, quite a pleasant sensation. “Spirits?” she’d managed, and Veda had smiled.
“Ghosts, specters, souls, or the dearly departed, if you like. I prefer ‘spirits.’ Much more dramatic. And your name is? There’s some confusion in the ranks on that.”
Cass had avoided giving out her name in case her parents had been looking for her and had made one up on the spot when it couldn’t be avoided. In that moment, she had known two things. First, this woman would see through any subterfuge and wouldn’t take kindly to a lie, no matter the justification. And second, it was time to leave the past behind. “My given name is Caroline Kiel. Cara. But I would like to be called Cassandra from now on.”
“Ah, Cassandra. Cursed by the god who couldn’t seduce her. A strong choice.” With that, Veda had spun on her heel and marched away. “Well, come on then, Cass. Time to go home.”
For Cass, that was exactly what Veda became. Home. Wherever Veda was, with her crystals and Tarot cards, her fringed scarves and her books on palmistry, there Cass found safety. Instruction. Security. And love. They had moved around fairly frequently, up and down the Lake Michigan shoreline, following the ebb and flow of tourism and the vagaries of their profession. Veda had introduced her to the metaphysical community, and Cass had finally found acceptance, then success. By the time she was eighteen, she was a highly sought-after medium. She earned her GED, and started taking college classes on investment strategy in her spare time. Earning her way in the world with the gift that had cost her so much was deeply satisfying, as well as profoundly healing.
It hadn’t been a linear path out of the dark, for sure. She’d floundered around trying to define herself, as all young people must – even psychic ones. She had tried to embrace Wicca for a while, but never resonated with the many rules and rituals. Then she’d gone through a “slutty gypsy” phase, which Veda had certainly not appre
ciated, followed briefly by an “antithesis” phase where she wore only tailored business suits and gave readings with a cool aloofness she thought came across as “professional.”
Finally, she’d settled into what she thought of as her Truth, a place where the trappings were irrelevant. What she wore and how people judged her outward appearance didn’t matter. She had been put on this planet by the Divine, at this time, for reasons she would learn as the adventure unfolded. This understanding had shaped her practice as a medium and psychic counselor. She loved nothing more than showing a soul in anguish how to free itself from the expectations of parents, friends, lovers, or society in order to embrace the unique being the Universe had created. Just as Veda had freed her.
It wasn’t often, Cass knew, that you got to settle a karmic debt and pay it forward at the same time. She had asked Veda once what had possessed her, taking in an angry, confused teenager with a drinking problem. Veda had smiled. “You know I don’t hold with future casting for myself, but you and me, we were foretold. Our souls planned this path together. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You’re the daughter of my heart, sweet girl, troubles and all.”
With fair winds, Cass would be back on Beaver Island late tomorrow, basking in Veda’s warm and colorful company, suffering through a cup of her truly terrible tea, and sharing all she’d learned on her journey. She was sailing in familiar waters now, and her heart soared with the joy of it. She recognized the steep green and golden point that marked Sleeping Bear Dunes, and adjusted her heading to the northwest. Flying in front of the benevolent wind, she was tying up at the dock on South Manitou Island in less than two hours. Cass and Veda had sailed from Beaver Island to both North and South Manitou numerous times while Cass had been learning, and the sense of homecoming brought tears to her eyes.
When she had finished securing her boat, she grabbed some overnight supplies and headed onto shore. Uninhabited by year-round residents since the 1950’s, the island had boasted several campgrounds, a lighthouse and weather station, some abandoned homes and farm structures, and a seasonally manned ranger station in the time before. Cass headed to the station now, scanning for evidence that anyone had taken up residence since she’d last been here, finding none. The station hadn’t yet been staffed for the year when the plague struck, and Cass and Veda had stayed overnight there a few times this past spring. Cass trotted up the porch steps and slipped inside, finding it just as they’d left it – dusty, but still habitable. She settled her things, then went back outside, feeling energized.
She had enough daylight left to hike to the ancient white cedar forest on the south shore. Some of the trees there were over 500 years old; it was one of the holiest places she’d ever been, and she never missed a chance to visit and recharge her core. She jogged back to her boat to grab her daypack and change her deck shoes for her hiking boots. Then, she headed out. After so many days on the boat, the rhythm of walking felt heavenly. The late afternoon sun was softened by a high haze of clouds, and the brisk and friendly wind cooled her as she strode along. She lifted her face to the sky, smiling, then laughing aloud in simple joy and thankfulness.
She’d seen so much trouble in the last six weeks, so much misery. She had left Beaver Island in late May, sailing down the Michigan shoreline in short hops. South of Whitehall, the mainland was a mess. Too many people, too few resources, even in some of the farming communities. The larger cities were hazardous on many levels. Unstable chemical storage was starting to toxify ground water and give rise to fires, and packs of both feral dogs and predatory humans ruled the deserted streets. There had been a mass exodus, she had learned, of survivors on the heavily industrialized east side of the state to the less populated west coast. The burden on already overburdened communities was complicated by a cultural clash between urban and rural sensibilities, a tension that had carried over from before the plague. In time, the city slickers and the country hicks would make peace, but the ongoing conflict was sure wreaking havoc in the here-and-now.
Cass had reason, over and over, to be grateful that Veda had acted so quickly when news of the plague broke a year ago spring. The older woman had grown up in Charlevoix, and had visited Beaver Island frequently on family vacations. She and Cass had been on the last ferry to make the run to the island, lugging all the worldly possessions they could carry in huge, overstuffed bags and suitcases, every penny of money they’d saved between the two of them stuffed in Veda’s ample bra. Cass had felt silly about it at the time, sure Veda was over-reacting. She sure didn’t feel silly now, especially when she saw the struggles people on the mainland were dealing with. Beaver Island wasn’t perfect. The winters were long and brutal, and only eleven of the island’s permanent residents had survived. More survivors had trickled in over the last year, and their community now numbered twenty-nine. They had turned one group away on Veda’s say-so, but in comparison to the mainland, they’d seen very little trouble.
Cass’s intuition had steered her past Muskegon, and sent her on her way swiftly after a brief stop in Grand Haven. She stayed a couple of weeks in Holland, and spent even longer in Saugatuck, one of the places she and Veda had lived the longest. Wherever she stopped, she gathered as much news as she could and bartered her skills for supplies that she could either trade on down the line or take back to the island with her. More than ever before, her particular psychic talents were in demand, as grief-stricken survivors sought confirmation that their lost ones were okay. Over and over, Cass shared what a lifetime of intimacy with spirit had taught her: That all beings were made of energy, and energy could not die – it simply changed forms.
“Your beloveds are still with you,” she had said, too many times to count, “Just not in the way they were before.”
Sometimes what she shared gave peace. Sometimes it didn’t, which was no different than the time before. At least now she didn’t have to spend as much time “proving” that she really was in contact with the spirit world, what with the changes so many people had gone through. When her protective measures failed, when the pressure of so many departed souls overwhelmed her, she would retreat to her boat, find a quiet cove or deserted dock, and spend a few days alone. Even so, as Cass traveled, word of her talent began to precede her. A small crowd of folks in South Haven had heard of her, and even more in St. Joseph. She didn’t know if the living or the dead were responsible for spreading the word.
She had intended to circle down around Chicago and continue up the Wisconsin shoreline, but the survivors in St. Joseph had warned her against going any farther south. Rumors of people disappearing from communities, especially children, had been trickling in via travelers from the area. Who was behind the disappearances and for what purpose people were being taken, no one yet knew, but speculation was running wild. In addition, fires were raging unchecked from Gary, Indiana to the north side of Chicago. Cass wasn’t yet an experienced enough sailor to strike out across open water, and there was no reason to chance it. There was nothing left for her in Wisconsin.
When the plague exploded into an official pandemic, she had called home for the first time in eight years. Her mother had answered, and as soon as she heard her mom’s hoarse voice, Cass had known. Like Veda, she avoided future casting for herself. Even with her clients, she preferred to work with the past, for healing, and with the here-and-now, for positive change. But sometimes, the flash forward was so inevitable, she caught a glimpse. Her parents were both sick, her dad desperately so, and Cass knew with certainty neither one would last the week. She had talked to her mom for hours, had listened to her sob in grief and fear, had told her a carefully edited version of her whereabouts since she’d left home, and had asked about Jack, whom they hadn’t been able to reach. They had talked until her mom fell asleep. After listening to her raspy breathing for a long, long time, Cass had disconnected the line, knowing she would never speak to either of her parents again.
A few days later, she had felt them both brush her heart on their way across the vei
l. Her mom had lingered for just a few minutes, her dad a little longer, his spirit touching her with love and forgiveness and acceptance, gifts for which she would have given anything while they were alive. The contact had brought her long-wounded heart some peace, but it hadn’t been enough. Just not enough. Even with her first-hand knowledge of the eternal nature of the human soul, her still-human heart had longed for their physical presence, for a last embrace, a smile, a tender touch. She had cried inconsolably in Veda’s arms, and even now, the memory brought tears to her eyes.
Cass lifted her face to the breeze. Her thoughts had carried her past the weather station and around the southern end of the island. The sun was easing towards the western horizon, the long summer day sliding into a long summer dusk, when she paused on the bluff that overlooked the partially submerged wreck of the Francisco Morazan. No lives had been lost when the freighter had run aground in foul weather more than a half century before, so other than the thriving colony of raucous cormorants, it was quiet. Around the decaying hulk, the waters of Lake Michigan sparkled and rippled with deceptive gentleness, the wreck itself standing testament to how dangerous and changeable the lake could be.
From the bluff, the trail wound into the Valley of the Giants, one of the few stands of virgin timber left in the state. Cass slowed her steps as she entered the gently rustling shade, then stopped and tilted her head back, breathing in the earthy richness and ancient peace of the towering cedars. Places like this were her church now, all the cathedral she could ever need. She pulled her daypack off and sat down, relaxing into a cross-legged position on the cool sand of the path. Pressing a hand over her heart, she sent her gratitude to the Source for this place, for the fact that she was alive and here, listening to the birds sing their songs of eventide in the vibrant green canopy high above.
The dark-haired woman returned to her there which didn’t surprise Cass in the least.