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.”
&n
bsp; “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.
I love this man. I have loved him forever. I’m swept away. The feelings of that distant night drown me.
Our tangled bodies embrace. They fall urgently on a heap of hay. The dry scent spills into the present, raising hair at the nape of my neck. His strong hands caress, stroke, and knead my aching body, releasing warm liquid melodies. His raven hair is coarse silk through my fingers. His dusky voice whispers sin against my navel as his tongue darts along a sensitive path between my thighs, lured by the pearly dew moistening my swollen bud. My feet wrap around his waist, my back arches, reacting to his intimate suckling and . . . I choke on a scream strangling up my throat.
On the couch my body responded to the passionate stimulation, and I found myself physically aroused. Hot and sweaty, I stirred and struggled with the wetness that drenched my trapped hair and my back, only to find myself wet in more private places. I’m a prisoner of my own past.
I yank his head upward and plunge my tongue into his mouth, sucking my own wetness off his lips, and spread my legs, ready to receive him. Cupping my backside, he lifts me up to meet him, hard, swollen, thick. I can barely breathe as I feel moist tissue stretch to accommodate such virile invasion. In a rush of French, with passionate words, I call his name. I beg for more, plead for satisfaction. Oh! Mon Dieu! I hope this never ends. Please, this is absolute ecstasy. This is how it’s supposed to be between man and woman.
Our lovemaking is a perfect unison of drumming heartbeats, of entwined limbs taut with blind, aching yearning for sexual fulfillment. Our souls merge, effortlessly soaring beyond earthly boundaries to fly an endless flight along the trail of a shooting star.
Time shifts, blurring memories into later, more tragic events.
In the castle courtyard, a crowd had gathered to gawk at Xavier’s perfect body slumped at my feet, lifeless. His beautiful, loving heart is torn open, reduced to a caked pulp. In front of a disapproving mob, my husband looks at his bloody sword and slowly wipes it against the candid lace cupping my heaving breasts. His satisfied glare at having once again mortified me is something I will never forget.
Unbearable pain flares through time, through my veins. It lights my blood on fire and explodes, shattering my heart. I clench my fists and jerk as if struck by lightning on the couch. I can barely speak. “Xavier’s dead,” I seethe.
“Honey, are you OK?” Evalena’s voice elbowed its way through thick curtains of folded pain and stirred me. “Do you want out?”
“No—,” I panicked. This is not over yet. “I need to know what happens next.”
“Ok, then slowly move away a few days ahead, and tell me what you see.”
“I believe I’m about to shoot somebody.” Through clenched teeth, I didn’t recognize my own voice. My big blue eyes are strong and hard. My hand is steady on the ivory butt. My right thumb on the shiny hammer slowly clicks it backward. I am using both hands. Making sure I do this right.
The rage spilled over into this present.
“Who?” Evalena asked.
“I can’t see who.” I cringe. “I can only see myself aiming a pistol.”
“Well then, move forward a few days and tell me where you are.”
“I’m in a carriage pulled by horses. I’m with my children. We’re leaving the castle behind. I’ve killed him. It’s evening time—dusk, I believe.”
I’m exhausted.
*
Evalena’s voice guided me upward, away from the vivid past into a weak present. From the bottom of an inscrutable darkness, I struggled upward toward a feeble glimmer of beckoning light.
Through the sheer gauze of billowing drapes, a marine breeze brushed my cheeks, and the memories swirled to finally settle, like leaves on freshly upturned soil.
I blinked and looked at Evalena. She smiled softly, and I thought of liquid women. Grateful, I accepted her offer of a lavender-scented wipe and ran it over my soaking neck and face.
“I would like you to meditate on today’s events. Take your time. No hurry. It will dawn on you. Then come back and share it with me, if you will.
“By doing a past life regression, you summon Transformation. You commit to respect your path and you embark on a soul-searching quest. Your soul, Porzia.”
Here she paused, sighed, and cast me a piercing look. “Be aware. This is not a straightforward path, Porzia.”
I smirked at her choice of words and raised my usual wary eyebrow.
“I explained the seriousness of this commitment before you accepted. Today I guided you in front of the tabernacle of your soul in such a manner that fears were your last concern. Stripped of obstacles, you faced your own truth. Be aware of this, Porzia.” Evalena stared at me, entranced. “The immensity of your soul is quite capable of embracing knowledge. You must use what you have seen today wisely.” Her arm arched and spread in a rainbow. “Discover your soul . . . for how do we love that which we don’t know?”
Evalena is a world-renowned herbalist I interviewed a few years back for one of my culinary articles; we’ve been friends and collaborators ever since. Aside from being such a skilled herbalist, Evalena is a natural-born clairvoyant. Still, despite her accuracy, my entire being exuded cynicism.
“That’s exactly what Joséphine told me before dying.” I shot her a penetrating look. “Excuse me if, after an eclipsed lifetime in dark exile, my soul remains skeptical about paganism and its powers to help me.” No, that wasn’t entirely true.
She tapped into my uneasiness and nodded soothingly. “It’s not your soul that is the skeptic, Porzia. And you know it.” Her certainty arrowed my cynicism and incinerated it.
“So, do you seriously believe Xavier is my soul mate?” My instinct had already answered.
“Porzia, it’s been a year since you broke up your last relationship. Can you honestly tell me that you’re healed, that you’re whole? At your grandmother’s passing, through the promise you made her, a timeless power has reawakened. You are a special creature with a powerful magic lineage coursing through your veins. I believe it is time to consecrate your divine awareness; embrace your spirituality. Transformation rests in your hands, Porzia. You begin this quest rich in unharnessed powers. You must find your magic and rise to access such richness. As in every archetypal fable, only the gods know what might pass along the journey. Moreover, it will be a long journey, perhaps involving an emotional death, anger, and grief.
“Liberation from boundaries is always a loss, Porzia. You must grow strong enough to ask for what you want, for it will be the glowing awareness of having been touched by magic that ultimately will attract your soul mate. And what you felt with Xavier is strong. So strong it spilled into the present and crawled over my skin, for as you were re-living it, I felt it. In my entire life, only one other time have I experienced such emotional strength.”
My left eyebrow shot up, questioning.
“When I put Rex under and saw us together centuries ago,” she said very matter-of-factly.
I knew she was married to her soul mate, but to actually think that it could happen to me was an extremely abstract concept. Perhaps I ought to raise the ceiling of the room where my ambitions are stored away collecting dust.
Oddio! It had been such a long time since my last date.
I shook my head. “I don’t know what to do now. Do I go around asking everybody I suspect to be Xavier if they suffer from nightmares of being killed in France by a nutcase wearing a powdered wig?” I had to smile at that.
Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) Page 2