by Gail Cleare
Construction plans for the addition to the store were progressing. We planned to close for the month of June while the remodeling was done. And during that time, I was going on a little vacation. To China! The University had offered Tony a position as a guest lecturer to their class on Chinese business practices, and he had accepted. In June, about twenty of the students were going to follow up the classroom experience by visiting several major Chinese cities. Tony had used his contacts to get the students appointments to meet with top executives at a couple of multinational corporations. Except for a trip from El Paso to Juarez one time when I visited my cousin in Texas, I had never been out of the country before, and I was very excited.
The timing was perfect for me, with what was going on at work. I was planning to do some buying for the shop, too, and Henry insisted I take a digital camera and laptop so I could keep in touch with him via the Internet. He wanted me to email him photos of any interesting pieces I came across.
We had just been talking about this on the day I went back down to the basement to unpack the last few pieces of porcelain in the bottom of the shipping carton under the stairs. I was remembering the image of Henry as a young man on the docks in Hong Kong that had once jumped into my head when I’d touched his hand. This time I envisioned the young Chinese man opening the red door when Henry knocked, to shake the young American’s hand and welcome him to the pottery, leading him inside.
I unwrapped two beautiful teapots and put them on the tray I had brought downstairs for this purpose, then reached into the crate for the next piece. When I touched it, I smelled a whiff of sandlewood and caught a ripple of distant bells, then heard that soft giggle again.
The ghostly presence was with me, I could sense it. But I wasn’t afraid this time, for some reason. It wasn’t that the intent of the spirit had changed, for my ghost had never expressed any malevolence. It was that I had changed. I accepted what was happening and didn’t fight it, giving myself permission to be in this moment and to have an aptitude for unusual perceptions.
My heartbeat accelerated and I reached for the covered jar under the excelsior. It was tightly wrapped in layers of delicate yellowed paper covered with Chinese characters, written by hand with a calligrapher’s brush. Inside the paper was a layer of sapphire silk, wrapped around the piece and sealed on one side, with a wax lozenge stamped with some design. This was nothing like the other porcelain we had found in the crate, and I held it in my hands reverently, knowing I had finally come across the piece my ghostly friend had wanted me to find. I felt a breath on the back of my neck, like a gentle sigh of contentment, and a warm glow spread through me.
I called up the stairs to Siri, who was working in the kitchen, and asked her to tell Henry he was needed. In a few minutes they both came downstairs, curious and eager. I showed them the silk-wrapped parcel. Henry did the honors and broke the seal then the three of us carefully unwound the fabric until he was left holding a large blue and white ginger jar, its lid lovingly sealed shut with wax and silk ribbons. Another design-stamped lozenge dangled from the seal.
“What do you suppose is inside?” Siri’s eyes were enormous.
“He wanted us to find this,” I said, nodding at Henry. “You should open it, but carefully.”
Henry nodded, his eyes sad and solemn. We both already knew what, or rather who, the jar contained. He broke the wax seal and unwound the ribbons to remove the top, revealing the light gray ashes within. We all stared for a moment. A small piece of bone lay on top of the ashes, and if we’d had any doubts as to their origin this would have resolved the question. Putting the top back on the jar, we silently climbed the stairs up to the kitchen, where Henry deposited the urn on the table. Siri made tea and we sat down together, waiting for Henry to speak. He had tears in his eyes and cleared his throat several times.
“My dear friend Walter Chung disappeared around the same time the Communists took Tibet and the Dalai Lama was forced to escape. I always assumed that he went into hiding with the monks, or that he was arrested and hauled off to jail somewhere.” Henry’s voice shook. “We hoped for the best, of course.”
“And all along, he was here with you, Henry.” I put my hand over his where it lay on the table.
“A lot of people were murdered or arrested in those days. It was dangerous for their families to inquire. Sometimes it was dangerous to admit you were a relative of someone who was caught spying. Walter’s wife and children were all sent to the family’s country retreat, to hide there until the situation improved. His father kept the business going all alone, in those times.”
“Do you think Walter was wounded somehow, or caught and tortured?” Siri asked. “Perhaps he escaped and died in some secret place, hidden by his father.”
Henry and I exchanged glances. “The pottery,” I guessed, knowing I was right.
“The large kiln where the porcelain was fired might have helped his father to dispose of the body,” Henry nodded. “He could have scattered the ashes anywhere afterwards, without danger of discovery. Or…”
“He wanted to honor Walter,” I said with certainty. “To send his ashes to a place where his spirit could be free. Back to America, to his friend Henry Paradis.”
“Yes,” Henry nodded. “And since Mr. Chung himself died soon afterwards, nobody ever knew what happened.”
“Until now.”
“Yes, until now.”
“When the circle can become complete,” said Siri, looking at the two of us.
“When his journey home approaches.” Henry agreed, smiling at me.
“His family will be so relieved to find out what happened and to have him back, won’t they?” Siri said happily.
“Do you suppose they’ll give us any trouble about taking human remains through customs?” I mused.
“If anyone can pull it off, my dear, surely you can!” Henry laughed.
“No fear,” I said, “My ghostly friend and I will take care of what ever comes up. I expect a personal tour of the family pottery from him when we arrive in Hong Kong, too! And his brothers had better give us a very good discount.”
“I’m sure they will, my dear, I’m sure they will.”
We temporarily put the ginger jar in a place of honor on the mantle above the fireplace in Henry’s study. From that day on, even after Tony and I had delivered his ashes to his family in Hong Kong that following summer, we would often catch the sound of ghostly bells when passing by the basement door. It seemed that even with spirits, old habits and old haunts are slow to disappear. Even when they have been laid to rest and we’ve all progressed to the next turn around the spiral. The patterns, and the energy, linger on forever.
Tony was happy about the arrangement he had made with the University. He had a chance to try a little teaching, without making a permanent full-time commitment. He was working from home, and had an office set up in the study on the first floor. He did business by phone, fax and email with his contacts around the world, and soon the Fed Ex truck was stopping at our house every day, just like it did at Henry’s. Our basement was filling up with boxes and crates.
Tony took me to New York a couple of times to visit galleries there, and we went to the theater and the museums. I started getting used to my new lifestyle, which was quite comfortable and a lot of fun. My only worries now were things like whether to have wild salmon or free-range chicken for dinner. I was never lonely, or depressed. The only thing I ever got angry about was politics, not anything in my personal life. The little lines between my eyebrows faded, and my doctor told me I was half an inch taller, which I credited to Pilates and an overall feeling of lightness, buoyancy. At night, I dreamed of sunlit sidewalks, happy voices, love and kisses. When I awoke in the morning there was a sweet taste on my lips, like honey. Life was very good, and I knew it.
Then one day, I realized that a whole year had passed since I first knocked on the door of number 33, Market Street. I went up to see Henry and told him it was our anniversary. He was sitting in his
reading chair, using his foot to gently rock the cradle where little Hope slept. The I Ching lay face down on his lap, and the three brass coins were on the table next to him.
“What did you mean, that first day we met, when you said, ‘I knew I was right about you?’” I asked him. “Had you been consulting the Oracle?”
“Of course,” Henry said. “And I knew that help was on the way. I guessed when you telephoned that you were the one. And a precious one you’ve turned out to be, my dear!” he added, with a fond twinkle.
“And, did you know about me and Tony, too?”
“Ah, that was more logic than premonition, Emily.”
“It didn’t seem logical to me! I didn’t like him at all when we first met. He seemed very stuck up and kind of dark, and scary.”
“That was because you didn’t really know him yet. You misinterpreted the signs.”
“I guess that’s always a danger, eh?”
“Oh yes,” said Henry earnestly, “People carry the past with them. They wear it like a mask, and it colors both how they look at the world, and how the world sees them.”
“So, how was it logical that Tony and I would fall in love?” I persisted.
“Emily,” said Henry gently, “Life is like a giant spiral, and the same form repeats, recycling over and over again. Each time we turn around, the form expands and it’s just a bit different, an echo of the same shape, but not the same exactly. You and Tony are like Margaret and me, the next time around, the progressed form of us. I saw it instantly, when we met. I emailed him immediately and told him he had to come and meet you, didn’t he ever tell you that?”
“No, “ I said, “I thought he came to see a special book you had found, or something like that.”
Henry smiled at me enigmatically.
“Thank you, Henry,” I said.
“And you too, my dear,” he said, bowing his head to me.
We looked at each other wondering what would happen on the next turn around the great spiral? What dreams would come true next time? What would we learn? How would we evolve? Whatever was in store for us, and I shivered in anticipation, it would be something that grew from seeds we planted today and the energy we fed them to make them germinate and thrive.
“Carpe diem,” I thought and pictured the future, seeing a long brilliant flash of the road that stretched ahead into a world filled with love, magic and light.
Afterword
The Fan-Shaped Destiny
One of the most interesting aspects of the Tarot’s view of life is the way it reconciles the apparently contradictory ideas of an inescapable pre-destined fate, and freedom of choice or self-determination. Picture the road to the future with periodic crossroads, major decision points, where many different paths stretch out ahead and we have the option to choose which one to take. Sometimes the choice is deliberate, more often it is totally unconscious. Once the first tiny step is taken, a series of events are inevitable, falling into place like a row of dominos, until we arrive at the next crossroads, where a choice will be offered again.
This idea has been called the “fan-shaped destiny.” It integrates the concept of karma, where our past and current choices are thought to have a direct effect on future events, and the concept of an inescapable fate, a cosmic master plan that rules the future despite any attempt we might make to alter it.
The Tarot believes that these opposite views about fate are both valid and compatible. It also embraces the idea of synchronicity, which skeptics would define as a random, meaningless coincidence of events or “dumb luck.” Random factors may enter the destiny equation at any point, according to Tarot, and not necessarily be significant in terms of influencing the future, though they may appear to establish a startling pattern.
Looking beneath this surface level of flashy anecdotal elements, all the distracting razzle-dazzle of everyday life, reveals the larger truth. A gifted Tarot reader must possess considerable psychic ability to apply the traditional interpretation of each card to the seeker’s particular questions. Knowing the meaning of the card or looking it up in a book is not enough to really understand the implications, just like having a French-English dictionary does not make one fluent in either language. A really good reader can intuit at a glance what the cards are saying, usually describing the information as a feeling, or the flash of a visual image, or sometimes a sound or scent. The cards are signposts, but the heart tells the way.
All of this implies the very interesting idea that the future is predictable, and that it can be changed. Therefore, “forewarned is forearmed” is the mantra of Tarot readers, who generally stress that while the final outcome card is an accurate prediction based on current conditions, there are definitely steps we can take to steer our lives in another direction, if we wish.
Sometimes conditions change along the way because of choices we didn’t even realize we were making. The Tarot offers us a glimpse ahead down the road, identifies people and events in the past and present that will ultimately have major impact on us, and warns us about important characters who will influence our lives in the future. This information helps us to better understand the past, more fully appreciate the present, and prepare for what lies ahead.
Readers who are curious to learn more about the Tarot are encouraged to make use of the Bibliography included at the end of this book. There are hundreds of different Tarot decks currently in print, with a broad range of visual styles and imagery. You should look carefully at all the cards, touch them, and choose the deck that “speaks” to you. I personally recommend the two beautiful Tarot decks by David Palladini, or the classic Rider-Waite Tarot, which was created in 1909 by A. E Waite, a member of the famous Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, illustrated by Pamela Coleman Smith.
The black and white illustrations at the beginning of each chapter are from The Payen Tarot of Marseille1713, one of the oldest surviving decks. (The word “Marseille” refers to a style of card, rather than the place they were created.) This Tarot was drawn by Jean Pierre Payen of Avignon, and the original cards are housed in the collection at the Bibliotheque Nationale de France, in Paris. Photographs of them can be found in Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, in New Haven, CT.
The descriptions included in the chapter headings sometimes contain references to symbols absent from the Payen Tarot, but which are commonly found in the many other decks that have been published since the 1700’s as artists and seers through the ages have enriched the visual tradition.
Bibliography
Mastering the Tarot by Eden Gray, a Signet Book from New American Library, 1301 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10019, 1971, p. 96-143.
The New Palladini Tarot by David Palladini, U.S. Games Systems, Inc., Stamford, CT 06902 USA, 2005.
The Witch’s Guide to Life by Kala Trobe, Llewellyn Publications, St. Paul, Minnesota 55164-0383, U.S.A., 2003, p. 191-243.
www.tarothermit.com, compiled and edited by Tom Tadfor Little, 2007-2012.
Aeclectic Tarot, “Thirteen’s Tarot Card Meanings, http://www. aeclectic.net, 2007-2012.
Uri Raz’s Tarot Site, http://www.tarot.org.il, 2007-2012.
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