A 3rd Time to Die

by George A Bernstein

  She made so much progress in understanding her relationship with Keith, but nothing explained the unreasoned fear that would grip her while making love… the terror that something or someone was about to attack her from the shadows. Then there was the strange world surrounding her whenever she jumped Injun.

  Dr. Feldman told her last week he felt the two things were somehow intertwined. The quick, practical way to unravel it was through hypnotic regression… their agenda today.

  "I think we should begin the regression immediately,” he said. “Are you nervous?"

  "Yes. And scared."

  "I assure you, there’s nothing to fear. You’ll see everything as if watching a movie, not as an actual participant. There’ll be no need to relive any pain or anxiety we might uncover, and when we’re done, you may find yourself much more at ease. You can either sit in the chair, or use the couch, as you prefer. Some are more comfortable if they are lying down."

  "I think I’ll sit right here."

  "Fine. Ready to begin?"

  She nodded and sat back, folding her hands in her lap.

  "Good. Now, close your eyes and relax. Let your mind go blank. Your facial muscles are going slack. Your neck is free of all tension. The energy is flowing out of your arms, out of your body, draining down, down, down...."

  Five minutes later, Ashley was in a deep trance, visualizing herself descended a long staircase, as the doctor's soft voice continued to direct her.

  "Now you are in a beautiful garden, filled with flowers of all colors. Reds, blues, greens, pinks. Do you see it?"

  "Yes. It's so peaceful." Her usually musical voice was hollow and mechanical.

  "Good. There is a gazebo there, and a bench inside."

  "Yes, I see it."

  "Go to the gazebo and lay down on the bench. It is very comfortable. You feel very relaxed and at peace. Are you there?"

  "Yes." She sounded drowsy, responding to his standard suggested “images” that he found a most successful platform from which to launch a regression.

  "Fine. Now, your body is relaxed, and can release your higher self to rise above it. A bubble of safety protects you. It surrounds you as you rise up - up - up. Your higher self is free of all Earthly constraints, as you rise up - up - up.”

  Good. She was responding perfectly.

  “Now, I’m going to count down, and when I reach “one,” you will enter a tunnel.

  “Three, two, one. Are you there?”

  “It’s dark, but very peaceful.”

  “Good. Now you are being drawn back… back… back. Back to a time in your youth. Back to when you began horseback riding. Three, two, one. Are you there?"

  "Yes. Mommy has rented a pony." It was the high voice of a small child.

  "How old are you?"

  "Six. I am so happy." She giggles. "I have the reins. I kick the pony and we run away from the man leading us. Everyone is yelling, but I ride around and around the ring. It’s easy."

  Feldman rubs his chin. She was an instinctive rider from the very beginning. He paused for a few moments, allowing her to enjoy the memory.

  He said, "Okay. We are going to leave that time and go forward to when you were ten, when I count down to ‘One.’ ”

  A moment later she was there, describing what was happening.

  "I am in our apartment. Papa is reading to me."

  “This is a happy time for you?”

  “Yes. I’m cuddled against my dad, with his arm around me. He’s reading me about a dog; Buff, a Collie.”

  "Has anything happened, either at home or in school, with a boy, or a man? Has anyone touched you in your private place."

  "No. I take my own bath. Not even Mama touches me anymore."

  “And your papa?”

  “No. He never comes in when I might be naked.”

  "Okay. When I count down to ‘one,’ go forward to the time when you first experience this fear of intimacy… the fear someone is going to attack you.” Quickly, she “traveled” seven years.

  "I am on a picnic at the Skokie Lagoons with Allen Clarke. We've driven to a hidden spot. It seems so familiar. I’m partly undressed and so excited. He’s touching me everywhere, and it feels so wonderful. Oh! There is a noise in the woods. Mon Dieu! Not again!"

  She was clearly agitated, her voice taking on a distinct French accent. "I grab my clothes and run away. Allen, he follows." Feldman’s brow wrinkles. What’s with that Gaelic inflection.

  "All right. Nothing can harm you here. That bubble of safety protects you. Look back at what happened on the picnic. Is this the beginning of your fear of some lurking danger?"

  "No. It was already there." Her voice was calm and accentless again.

  Feldman was frustrated. This was not what he expected. No sign she was ever molested as a child, so these fears must have manifested themselves as a teenager, first discovering her sexuality. He kept trying.

  "Go back to an earlier time, when you first were serious with Keith. How did you feel when he attempts to force you? Three, two, one." She had related that incident to him in their last session.

  "I’m angry… and ashamed at what he had me do to him. But I sense the fear there, stalking me, even before we became so physical." Her voice was quizzical, as if she were also confused.

  "Can you bring it to the surface. Face it. See where it came from?" Such a direct move could be dangerous, but he didn't know what else to do. They had to get to the origin of her terror, or she would never lead a sexually fulfilling life.

  " ‘Tis old. I feel ‘tis very old." The timber of her voice had changed, and the inflections were definitely French again. In utter frustration, he made one final, fateful, stab.

  "Okay. I’m going to count backward again, and I want you to go to that time, whenever it was. Go back to the very incident that first created this deep fear. Three, two, one.”

  Feldman paused as a coquettish grin transformed her face.

  “Are you there?" He was unaccountably tense.

  "Oui! Oh, c'est belle. La foret, c’est magnifique.” She rattled on in elegant French, her voice youthful, full of music. His skin erupted in goose bumps, the hair prickling on his neck.

  He knew enough of the language to recognize the woman speaking to him now was French. No one, other than possibly a long time resident, could speak it so beautifully. He was having difficulty understanding the rapid stream of her comments.

  He said, "Please, speak in English."

  "Oui. It is just that I am so aroused." She was breathless.

  “Where are you?”

  "In Devonshire, of course. Armand, that sniveling dandy, and I are the guests of the handsome Lord Wallace.”

  “Devonshire? Devonshire, England?”

  “ ‘Tis there another?”

  When was she in England? And who is Armand? Or Lord Wallace? She never mentioned any of this before. This had to be fairly recent.

  "What is the year?"

  "The year of our Lord, 1695."

  "1695! You’re in Seventeenth Century England?"

  What the Hell’s going on? Past Life regression was crap. He struggled to stay calm. This fantasy should be the key to her fears.

  "Who are you?"

  "Victoria Chevalier, Countess du Beaujolais.” She laughed, vivacious and enchanting.

  “My husband, Armand, we are in England for a month. The Earl of Devonshire is our final, and definitely most wonderful host." Her chuckle was soft, seductive. Quiet, reserved Ashley’s demeanor was transformed into a sensual flirt.

  Feldman took several slow, deep breaths, fighting some strange inner turmoil.

  "Tell me what’s happening."

  She settled back, her eyes rolling up under their lids, as she remembered...

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “Sir Charles Wallace, Earl of Devonshire, he stands in his stirrups, waving his hat.

  " ‘Sound the assembly! The Sun's up, and time's awasting,’ he calls.

  “ ‘Tis a magnifique day, f
ull of glorious promise.” She smiled wickedly.

  “Oui! A promise between only us. Quell homme. His sensuality, it sweeps over me like a storm. I drown in a desire beyond my ken. The hunger in his eyes, it tells me he feels the same. Clarice, his bitter, cold wife, she clearly ignites nothing in his heart… or his loins.”

  The copper-haired seraph, “Victoria,” speaking to him is as different from Ashley Maren as pork is from trout. The corner of her mouth turns down, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “How is it that my father wed me to this foppish clown?” she said. “Armand, Count du Beaujolais? A man who prefers l’homme jeune.”

  “Young men?” The doctor asks.

  “Oui. Boys, actually. My loins ache for the love of a real man… for a man like Charles.”

  Jesus! Could her subconscious really have invented this?

  “Arranged marriages! Bah! Neither Chevalier, nor the earl's icy wife will offer any real obstacle. This very day, Charles and I, we will find our true destiny”

  “Ah, the hunt begins. The trumpet sounds, and ‘tis a melee!” She explodes with laughter, slapping a hand on her knee.

  And the story of the race through a lush forest of mighty oaks and towering fir gleefully unfolds with vivid imagery, narrated in a sensual Gaelic voice.

  “Tallyho! Tallyho!” the two-legged vixen howled, leaning forward, striking the side of her chair with an imagined crop.

  Dr. Feldman studies her, fidgeting uneasily in his chair.

  Where has this come from? Didn’t she say she’s never been on a fox hunt?

  Soon she’s alone with Charles in a picturesque glade, shaded with giant oaks, and bordered by a tumbling brook.

  “I am in Charles arms,” her voice husky with passion. “Ah, Dieu, I have the weak knees and mountains of the goose bumps. His dark eyes, they consume me. We kiss.”

  “He is my destiny, this Charles Wallace, handsome Earl of Devonshire. We make the love. The smell of wild flowers, the song of a little brook … it all makes a Heaven on Earth. C'est magnifique. I am lost." The radiance of her smile ignited the air in the dimly lit room.

  Feldman crouches forward, transfixed. She had sex without fear, finding it wonderful. He, on the other hand, was become very agitated, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, as if he were running. He closes his eyes, immersed in the vividness of her descriptions, visualizing them lying naked in the grass, her russet hair spread like a coppery halo around her head.

  He sees them so clearly, coupling on the ground. In his mind's eye, everything seems familiar (how is that possible?) but leaves and twigs obstruct a clear view. He is unaccountably breathing hard, his face flushed.

  How can the Earl do this? Cheating his noble lady. He has known this French harlot but a week, damn the witch. Already they seem to share a love, a harmony of souls. ‘Tis a sin before God. They are married to others, but that has not tempered their immoral lust.

  Feldman shakes his head, blinking his eyes. What the Hell is this? Why am I so angry? And why do I feel I’m in the middle of her story, seeing everything so clearly?

  “Ayy!” Ashley pants softly. “Twice we make the love, and now lay again in each other arms. This thing, ‘tis a miracle we cannot fathom.”

  Feldman was quivering, squirming in his chair, fists tightly balled.

  The bastards! Might they even consider divorce?

  They are tangled together on the lush green carpet, streaked with ribbons of sunlight creeping through the might canopy of leaves and branches. The sight of them, even with brush cluttering the view, fuels his anger.

  He lurches back in his chair, suddenly chilled.

  The sight of them?

  I’m not just seeing it through her eyes! It’s as if I’m there. And, he first realizes, he has an unseen companion.

  Suddenly they are both charging out of the woods, and he’s consumed by rage.

  A lesson must be taught.

  Lesson? What Lesson? Why am I so….

  “Ayy, Charles, I am yours. I... qui est-ce?... Who’s there? Charles! Look out...”

  Feldman senses the two of them rushing upon the naked lovers. There is a whirring beat in the air. Something heavy strikes the unsuspecting man. His head is stove in.

  “No! Mon Dieu, don’t....”

  Her pleas are snuffed out, her face dissolving into a bloody pulp, as deadly blow after blow smash down upon them. They are not just killed, they are torn asunder. Somehow, he’s watching the slaughter, mesmerized and seething with hate.

  Feldman blinks, blinks again, shaking his head, his ears still echoing with her anguished screams. He’s suddenly aware his patient is scrunched back in her chair, screeching in terror.

  “We are dead. Oh, mon dieu, we are dead!”

  What the Hell is going on? Struggling to recover his composure, somehow drenched with sweat, he speaks to her as reassuringly as he can manage, through his ragged breathing.

  "Mrs. Easton! Try to control yourself.” His voice is a hoarse croak. “There’s nothing to fear. You’re only seeing this from a distance. It’s like a movie. You feel nothing. Please, try to calm down. It's okay. It's not real. Nothing can hurt you in your protective bubble of safety."

  Ashley wept, her cheeks stained by the lava-flow of mascara, face gone slack, her body a pile of old rags, almost without shape or definition.

  "We are dead! We are both dead." She’s racked by sob, body convulsing, her arms wrapped around her in useless defense.

  Strangely, Feldman’s own vision lingers. Even with his eyes open, he saw them (he sense his companion there) standing over the bodies as blow after blow is delivered with maniacal intensity, mutilating the two lovers beyond recognition.

  Still the flush of great anger filled his breast. Then the images began to fade, sucking all his emotion after it, leaving him numbly empty.

  Fighting to grasp control of the present, he saw Ashley, huddled in the depths of the large chair, moaning softly.

  "We are dead. Dead!"

  “Mrs. Easton, you’re safe,” his voice a choked rasp. “Safe in your protective bubble. Nothing you’re seeing can hurt you. It isn’t real.” Time to end this. His tongue darts across parched lips.

  “Now, you’re being pulled back… back to the sunny garden… back to your peacefully sleeping body… back to the present. Nothing can hurt you. You flow quietly back… back...”

  He brings her down, hurrying her into wakefulness. He was badly shaken, and his shirt was soaked. Her eyes opened, cautious slits, sweeping the room for danger.

  "That was terrible," her voice barely audible. "You said this would be painless and restful, but it was awful!" Tears continued coursing down her muddied cheeks.

  "I'm so sorry. Things just got out of hand. I've never experienced anything like that from a patient before. I should have handled it better."

  "But, what was that? Was I actually someone else, in another life? 1695! My God!"

  She dabbed at her tears and blew her nose, shaken, looking at him for answers he wasn’t sure he could give.

  "Many people believe in Past Life regression, but it is all just the work of a powerful subconscious mind, inventing fairy tales to explain things they can't consciously understand. It's like a dream. A nightmare, in this case. But, it is a useful tool in uncovering hidden anxieties and fears, as it has today with you.”

  “But why French? I barely know the language, and I was rattling it off like a native. I can understand the horses. You know I love to ride and jump. But this Victoria was a reckless, carefree rider, so much more skilled than I. A French Countess? And that magnificent forest… on a fox hunt? I’ve never seen or done those things, except during what I call The Metamorphosis in the show ring. It must be she who takes over when I’m jumping Injun. How could I make that up?”

  “You did study French in school?”

  “Yes, two years at New Trier, but I…”

  “Ah, yes. A fine school. And I’m sure you’ve read novels. Romances, possi
bly?”

  “Not so much now, but when I was younger…” She was finally unwound, sitting more easily in the big chair.

  “But, you’re subconscious remembers all. Even though you may remember very little French consciously, everything you learned is stored in your memory. The romantic descriptions of the hunt, the woods, the language… even the perfect lover. It’s all stored in here,” pointing to his head, “awaiting the right retrieval codes.”

  “And this regression? That supplied these codes?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why? Why suddenly now, after so many years?”

  “We don’t know that yet. It may reflect the current condition of your marriage. We need more time to more fully explore this, but it’s been a great start. As terrifying as this was, I suspect you will be far less fearful of sex after today. This should be a catharsis for you. We still need to find where this illusion was born, if you’re to get complete relief from so many years of anxiety."

  "But it seemed so real." Her voice choked.

  "Of course it did. So do many dreams. Tell me, if you can, exactly how you saw your lives end in this fantasy."

  "The man, Charles, and I were making love when something struck him down. I couldn't really see our attacker. I… I had an impression of some hideous creature with horns and a beak, then everything went blank. It killed me, too!"

  "Remember, this is something made up by your subconscious. It never really happened."

  "But it seemed so real," she repeated, sounding tired, drained and forlorn. They talked for another ten minutes as he slowly and expertly placated her.

  When she finally left his office, Ashley Easton was again calm, convinced now everything would be all right.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Feldman sat motionless, unable to summon the strength to rise, long after Ashley departed. Although he succeeded in hiding it from her, he was still quite shaken by the session.

  There were no such things as past lives. He was certain of it! Or at least, he used to be. He supposed one could try to explain everything away… the suddenly fluent French; the total change in voice and speech patterns; her innate facility for riding and jumping; the terror. Too many things, too perfectly described to succumb to the simple explanation he fed her.