The Eagle and the Rose

by Rosemary Altea

  So I made a pact. “All right,” I said to those in the spirit world I knew were listening. “The first week I get three bookings I'll give up my job and work full-time for the spirit world.” The following week I quit my job and chose my new name … Altea. That was in October 1981.

  Bookings came in slowly over the next few months, but there were never fewer than three a week. At first I was terribly nervous, knowing the responsibility of what I was doing and aware of the great need of those in the spirit world to communicate with their loved ones. I worked hard, wanting to do my very best. Even though I seemed to be working in the dark, I was always aware that someone was helping me, although I didn't know who….

  Even as I write this chapter I contemplate the low probability of being believed, knowing how ridiculous it all seems. Although one of the main aims in my life is to help people to understand how normal and natural a medium's work is, I do seem to be saying just the opposite. What I am about to write I know will be seen as so ludicrous as to be totally unbelievable. I am also aware of the danger, more so after writing such seeming rubbish, of being thought by some to be a liar, a cheat, and a charlatan.

  What I am about to relate lacks credence, I know. Yet it's true.

  My first meeting with a spirit guide did not occur in dramatic and unusual circumstances, as I might have expected.

  It was just a few weeks after I had begun my psychic development, November 1981, that I woke early one morning to find him standing by the bed, looking down at me. Although I was still half asleep, I knew he was no apparition, no specter in the night. Nor was he a figment of my imagination.

  It felt natural for me to acknowledge him, and I smiled a sleepy hello.

  He bowed graciously, looking completely at ease, and I knew that subconsciously I had been waiting for this moment to arrive.

  I didn't ask his name, and he never gave it, but I nicknamed him my dancing Scotsman.

  He wore a bright-colored kilt and a jacket, with a sword belt strapped across his shoulder and a sporran laid over the kilt; on his head he wore a tam-o’-shanter. His shoes were soft and looked similar to those worn by ballet dancers, and his socks were the long woolen type.

  And he danced. Every time he was pleased with something, or if he felt that I needed cheering up, which was quite often in those days, he would dance a little jig.

  I didn't need to be told that he was a spirit guide, or helper. I knew instinctively that he was, and I felt tremendously reassured just having him around.

  I began to expect him to be there when I needed help of any kind, and every morning when I woke up he would be the first person I would see.

  It was great to have someone special—a friend, a teacher—and without realizing it, I became quite reliant on the fact that he was always there when I needed him. Basically, I took him for granted.

  A silly thing to do.

  Having read quite a bit by this time about spirit guides, books like Forty Years a Medium written by Estelle Roberts, I knew that all of us have someone in the spirit world who watches us and watches over us. For most people this “guide,” or “guardian angel,” is someone connected to the family, a relative or close friend, often someone we have had a special affinity with prior to his or her death. Occasionally this guide may be family connected but never talked about, so we may have to do some checking to discover his (or her) identity. I had just assumed that I had been allocated my dancing Scotsman, who was possibly some ancient ancestor, rather than an American Indian, and that from now on he would always be around to help with my work and personal life.

  I was quite delighted with this choice of guide, as I have always felt a particular affinity with the Scottish people, and indeed with Scotland itself, and I loved to hear him when he spoke to me, his voice soft and lilting. My father, being half Welsh, half Scot, had always seemed to dismiss the Welsh side of the family and was very proud of his Scottish ancestry. I suppose this is where my own feelings stemmed from.

  Apart from this, I felt that a Scottish guide was much more acceptable in real terms than some possibly imagined, outlandish-seeming Indian chief with feathers in his hair and perhaps war paint on his face.

  So I was content. My psychic development was unusual, I was told by Mick and Paul, in that everything I attempted to do, to learn, came easily. Instinctively I knew how to act and how to react. It was as if, suddenly, someone had switched on a light. I had been plugged in to some incredible unseen energy source, and I knew just how to use it. My actions were totally spontaneous, and as I sat with my clients, making communication with their loved ones in the spirit world, I knew just what to do.

  If my dancing Scotsman, always with me, wanted to communicate certain information to me quickly, the most efficient way was to show me certain pictures or symbols. He didn't have to explain these symbols, or signs, to me, I just knew instinctively (there's that word again) what they meant. It was a bit like learning the highway code, using road signs to indicate certain situations, such as a railway crossing, road construction ahead, and so on.

  I cannot be specific about the symbols that we used, nor their meanings. I do not imply that these are secret signs, trade secrets, so to speak, but this is a language all of its own, foreign to most people. It is a language I still use, but it has become more complex, less simplistic, and totally unexplainable. And, like the old proverb, every picture tells a story, or, in this case, one picture is worth a thousand words.

  My clientele began to grow, I continued with my development group, my clairvoyant and clairaudient abilities became stronger and therefore much clearer, and each Wednesday evening as Paul, Irene, Mick, and I met to continue my psychic development, my progress was, to say the least, startling.

  All this time my dancing Scotsman was there, helping, pushing, encouraging, and every morning I would wake to find him smiling down at me and ready to begin another day. I was happy. I drew closer to God, knowing that I was doing His work.

  I can't remember exactly when it was that I began to be aware of yet another strong influence about me. It was a distinctly male influence, and at first I thought it was my father. But I soon dismissed this theory, as it didn't “feel” right. It is hard to explain to those who have never had a psychic experience the feeling of a “presence”—a sensing of a “spirit being” around you, sometimes close, almost breathing on you, sometimes from a distance, but real, very real.

  It must have been in January 1982, just two or three months after meeting the Scotsman, and at first I put it down to mild curiosity on the part of someone in spirit, come to take a look at me and at what was going on.

  It soon became apparent that whoever this was, he was more than just mildly curious. He was around far too often for that. But try as I might, I could not catch even a glimpse of this unknown intruder.

  Even Mick was at a loss as to who he was, but smiling that knowing smile, which I had now come to recognize so well, he told me that I would just have to be patient and wait until “he,” whoever “he” was, was ready to make himself known to me. “That is,” he added, grinning wickedly, “if he ever does.”

  Then came the shock!

  I woke up one morning and automatically turned to where my dancing Scotsman usually stood, but he was not there. I sat bolt upright and searched around the bedroom. He was nowhere in sight!

  At first I panicked, wondering frantically if I had done or said anything that might have offended him. I couldn't think of anything, but I found it hard to dismiss the thought. Then common sense took over, and I realized how selfish I was being to expect him to be with me all the time.

  He'll turn up when he's ready, I thought. Perhaps he's busy. I'm sure I'll see him later on.

  Well, I waited. All that day I expected that he'd turn up, then the next day, and the next. But he didn't.

  He had disappeared without any warning or explanation of any kind. My dancing Scotsman had deserted me. I felt lost, alone, and so let down. I thought this must be the end, th
e end of my work as a medium.

  What I had yet to learn was that often, before new growth can take place, the gardener must till the land. And a good gardener always makes sure before he begins his work that the land is fertile. He would not plant a forest of young trees without first inspecting the ground to make sure that his trees would gain nourishment to enable them to grow tall and strong.

  Two weeks passed, and it now seemed that my dancing Scotsman had gone forever. But the space in my life that he had occupied was slowly being filled. My mystery figure, the unknown spirit entity, was making his presence felt more and more. At first his “presence” had been spasmodic; now I “felt” him constantly, always there, drawing closer.

  I began on Wednesday evenings to do more and more trance work.

  While in trance, the medium chooses to vacate her physical body, for just a short time, leaving an empty shell or vessel, which a spirit entity may then use. Able to use the vocal cords, the spirit entity can then communicate “through” the medium to the other members of the group or circle, often telling of their own earthly life experiences and expounding their philosophical views and ideas about life, both on the earth plane and in the spirit world.

  Basically there are three stages of trance: light, medium, and deep. The first state, light trance, is possibly the most interesting from the medium's point of view, as she (or he) is aware of everything that is happening, even though unable to interfere or stop it in any way.

  In the first stage of trance, I was able to watch and listen with fascination as some unseen force seemed to manipulate “my” body as a puppeteer might operate his doll.

  In the second stage of trance it is possible to be aware of some of the proceedings but not all. And in deep trance, the third stage, the medium is totally unaware of any action that takes place. This is why we always made sure we had on a tape recorder at all times during the evening. I have always hated to miss out on anything and found it infuriating to have to listen as, at the end of an evening of trance work, the rest of the group discussed with interest the events that had taken place. Only after listening to the tape could I join in and feel part of it all.

  I was never very keen to go into trance. Not, as some of you might think, because I was scared, although on reflection I am surprised that I wasn't. But I was always concerned that my trance state was real, not my imagination working overtime. I certainly didn't want to fool anyone else. But more important, I didn't want to start fooling myself. I gained so much knowledge and insight through trance work, but at that stage in my development, going into trance seemed to me to be such an unnecessary thing to do.

  So I always fought against it. Mick would sit with me and gently, patiently, talk me through my doubts until, once I was sufficiently relaxed, a trance state would take place.

  During the short time that my dancing Scotsman had been with me, he had always been a gentle spirit guide, a quiet and sensitive teacher, always leading me by the hand in a calming and reassuring manner. This new entity, who, I began to suspect, was to take the Scotsman's place, was a different force altogether.

  I didn't like not knowing who he was, and that made me a little nervous. But I was more curious than afraid and began to look for little signs or clues as to who the mystery man was. And I sensed more and more that I would not have to wait much longer to find out.

  The date was February 10,1982. My daughter, Samantha, was not quite twelve years old. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and I was driving home from Doncaster along a straight country road, when it happened. I got my final clue. A huge bird seemed to come from out of the blue and flew straight across the hood of the car. My foot hit the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt, with me inside shaking like a leaf. I'd really thought I was going to hit the thing.

  What was it? I thought. An eagle? No. It couldn't have been, we don't have eagles in this part of the country. But it was. As soon as I'd thought those words I knew that I was right.

  I tried to picture it in my mind but only got the image of its underside, which had been grey.

  I drove home, puzzling over what had happened, knowing that this incident definitely had something to do with the still unknown spirit entity who I now felt often, at my side. But what it meant I still didn't know. I just couldn't figure it out.

  Samantha was waiting for me outside the school gates, and I picked her up and drove straight home. The rest of the afternoon was spent in the garden with my daughter, and it was only as I was getting her ready for bed that I thought again of the earlier incident with the eagle. She was sitting on my knee, sopping wet with a large towel wrapped round her, having just come out of the bath, and she was recounting the events of school that day. As I rubbed her dry I listened intently, making the odd comment here and there.

  This was our time, my daughter's and mine. A time for chuckles and cuddles and talking. A bedtime ritual I indulged in thoroughly. That precious hour of closeness, nice soapy smells and warmth.

  So I nodded and smiled as I listened attentively to her chatter. Then she said, “And we've been doing birds, Mum, as well.”

  “Birds? What do you mean, you've been ‘doing’ birds?” I replied.

  Samantha explained how they had been discussing various types of birds in her nature class that afternoon.

  It crossed my mind, as I tucked my daughter into bed a short time later, that birds seemed quite relevant today to both of us. And was it my imagination, or did I really hear my unknown “spirit being” chuckle at this thought?

  This evening, Wednesday, was my “development” night. So as soon as I'd put Samantha to bed, I got ready for my visitors. There were five of us that night. Besides myself, Irene, Paul, and Mick, I had decided to invite a woman who was a regular visitor to the Friday discussion group.

  Adele Campion was a lady who, on first meeting, conveyed the wrong impression. She seemed quite dour, rarely smiled, and had extremely strong views on many subjects. Some may have called her pigheaded; others more kindly would have described her as strong-minded. I liked her, and for many reasons.

  I found her openness and candor refreshing, and even though it was well hidden, she really did have a great sense of humor. A little dry, perhaps, but lovely all the same.

  Later on, both she and her husband, Phil, became good friends of mine, and at a time when friends were very thin on the ground. If I ever needed help or advice, these two kind people were always on hand.

  On this Wednesday evening we five sat in a small circle, not really knowing what to expect, Adele least of all. Mick had requested she sit quietly and not interfere in any way, no matter what happened.

  We had begun by asking, as always, for protection and for God's guiding hand. And then we sat and waited.

  Slowly I became aware of that now familiar feeling that precedes trance: a sensation of being weighted down by a tremendous but unseen force. My body became a dead weight, but my head felt light and almost weightless.

  As usual, I struggled to try to retain control of my senses, and I felt, rather than saw, Mick's reassuring hand in mine. “Just relax,” he said, his voice soothing and calming. “Let it happen, and don't try to right it. We're all here to help, just let yourself go.”

  It took a while before I was able to do as he said, but gradually I let go of my inhibitions, and the trance state was complete.

  No sooner was I “out” than I was replaced by the first spirit entity waiting to communicate.

  Being only in the first stage of trance, I was able to see and hear all, and as I looked on I was amazed at the transformation my body was making. I watched in fascination as my physical body began to move, slowly at first, as if someone were trying it on for size. Then, quickly becoming used to it, “he” stood up.

  It seemed not to be my physical self any longer, being much taller and quite broad set, giving the distinct impression of a male form rather than female.

  He stood high in stature and straight, his shoulders set back and his arms folded acros
s his chest. It was no longer my own physical form that I was looking at, but his.

  His very presence was electric and tremendously impressive, but the thing that struck me most about him was the power and energy that seemed to exude from his very being. He was tall and broad, dark skinned, with shoulder-length black hair. And he had the most startling and beautiful eyes. Standing straight and proud, bare chested, with his arms folded, he looked around the room.

  Then he spoke, in a voice strong and vibrant with energy, and all became clear.

  “My name,” he said, “is Grey Eagle, and I am Apache.

  “From now on you will know me as guide, teacher, and mentor to your medium.

  “Together we will work in spiritual harmony, she and I. Your medium will learn many things, and her progress will be great.

  “We will achieve much.

  “My little flower is weak and exhausted from her many earthly trials. She needs water, food, and sustenance, which I, as her spirit guide and protector, will give.

  “Which I will always give.”

  Now there are many strange and unaccountable things that happen in the course of a medium's working life. And I would surely lose faith in myself and in my guide if I were to pretend, for the sake of credulity, that they did not.

  My new guide had, I had noticed, referred to “his little flower, his rose.” But it took a few minutes after hearing this before I realized, with some surprise, who it was he had been referring to.

  His little flower? His rose?

  Yes. His little flower was me. And yes, Mick McGuire did surely watch as I “ate” my words, for as he had told me just a few months before, my spirit guide was indeed an American Indian.

  Grey Eagle spoke more. His English was good, with only a slight, undefined accent. His voice held a special quality, firm and strong but at the same time gentle. I was drawn toward him, compelled to listen.

  “We know each other, she and I, and yet she will not remember me.

  “We who are of spirit have been waiting.