Praise for Margaret Duarte and
BETWEEN WILL AND SURRENDER
“I recommend this book wholeheartedly for readers interested in metaphysics, psychological, and New Age themes.”
~Robin Gregory, Author of The Improbable Wonders
of Moojie Littleman.
“[Between Will and Surrender] blends the standard elements of a good novel with the specific ingredients of visionary fiction (growth in consciousness, paranormal events, spirituality) to render a tale that entertains, mystifies and enlightens—and not necessarily in that order or in any order. The result is exquisite.”
~Victor Smith, Author of Channel of the Grail, A Novel of Cathars, Templars, and a Nazi Grail Hunter and The Anathemas, A Novel of Reincarnation and Restitution
“Margaret Duarte has succeeded in telling an entertaining story, complete with characters worth caring about, whose motivations are clear and believable, and in the process, she revealed mystical truths in an organic way.”
~Rea Nolan Martin, Author of Mystic Tea
and The Anesthesia Game.
“Well-written work. Highly recommend to those who love stories of the paranormal-metaphysical at work in daily lives.”
~Gini Grossenbacher, Author of Madam of My Heart
and Madam in Silk.
ALSO BY MARGARET DUARTE
Between Darkness and Dawn
Between Yesterday and Tomorrow
Between Now and Forever
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination and visions or used in a fictitious manner, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Margaret Duarte
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For information address Omie Press, P.O. Box 581952, Elk Grove, CA 95758.
Book Cover design Yocla Designs by Clarissa
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Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Duarte, Margaret.
Title: Between will and surrender / Margaret Duarte.
Description: Elk Grove, CA : Omie Press, 2015. | Series: Enter the between, bk. 1.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015920212 | ISBN 978-0-9860688-2-9 (pbk.) | ISBN 978-0-9860688-3-6 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Women--Fiction. | Esselen Indians--Fiction. | Self-actualization (Psychology)--Fiction. | Spiritual life--Fiction. | Paranormal fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Visionary & Metaphysical. | FICTION / Fantasy / Paranormal. | FICTION / Native American & Aboriginal. | FICTION / Occult & Supernatural. | GSAFD: Occult fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.U241 B48 2015 (print) | DDC: 813/.6--dc23.
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Dedication
For my husband, partner, and friend, John Duarte
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Table of Contents
Spring
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
A Word from My Protagonist
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Book two of the “Enter-the-Between” series
Book three of the “Enter the Between” series
Book four of the “Enter the Between” series
Spring
2001
The path of initiation begins in the East,
the place of clarity and illumination.
Sometimes, quite suddenly, we are caught unaware, and a door opens, offering a new insight, a new path, and we hesitate at the threshold, reluctant to go through, because we know if we do, life will never be the same.
In retrospect, I can safely say that Cliff Smotherman drove me straight to it.
Chapter One
LEAVE IT TO CLIFF to insist that we take a romantic day trip to Carmel on Ash Wednesday. I could have said no, of course. I could have suggested that we turn the car around and do this some other day. It’s just that . . . Well, it had been so long since he’d asked. And it wasn’t as if I would have been in church anyway. Five years ago, yes, I probably would have had ashes on my forehead by now, in the shape of a cross, a reminder of my earthy beginnings, of my dusty heart, of repentance, of death.
Vivaldi’s “Winter” Concerto No. 4 surged through all eight speakers of the digital sound system in Cliff’s Mercedes Benz, evoking in my fertile mind images of dark clouds, dripping fog, and violent storms. Instinctively, I sank deeper into the soft leather passenger seat, which, according to Cliff, had been adjusted in one of fourteen ways for my ultimate ease and comfort. I shivered against this luxury.
“Sulking?” Cliff asked.
I smiled. “Sort of.”
“Well snap out of it, Marjorie. You’ve been bugging me for weeks to take you somewhere.”
“I know, but—”
“Yeah, yeah, not on Ash Wednesday. I heard you the first time.”
I closed my eyes and pressed my head back onto the seat, then wrapped my arms beneath my chest as if warding off a draft.
“Cold?” Cliff asked.
“No.”
I heard the protest of leather as Cliff leaned forward and edged up the heat. “Better?”
“Sure.”
“It’s all filtered and controlled, you know.”
“What is?”
“The air.”
“Huh?”
“The temperature, the dust, the pollen, it’s all monitored.”
I sighed.
“And it tracks the sun.”
“What does?”
“The climate control.”
“Why?”
“To keep the temperature inside this baby at” —Again the sound of creaking leather— “sixty-eight degrees.”
“Sounds like you’ve actually read the owner’s manual,” I said.
“Cover-to-cover.”
I stifled a yawn. “I haven’t even opened mine.”
“That figures,” he said.
I opened my eyes and focused on my fiancé. Like his Mercedes, Cliff was sleek and alluring, in an aluminum, magnesium
, and steel sort of way. His front end was bold and riveting and was currently accented by reflective glasses that gave him a captivating look. His take-charge personality often rocketed me to places I didn’t want to go. Like today.
We were cruising along the famous 17-mile stretch of California road that zigzagged through the Del Monte Forest of Pacific Grove and then picked its way along the coast to just north of Carmel. Yet Cliff hadn’t slowed down even once to take in the view.
I felt the sudden, almost violent, urge to escape the cockpit of this technologically perfect machine. “Cliff, please pull over.”
Mirrored glasses turned my way. “Why?”
“I need some fresh air.”
“Then open the window.”
Fighting the onslaught of a familiar ache in my head, I looked at the brochure on my lap and noticed the picture of a cypress tree on its cover. “I’d like to see the Lone Cypress. It’s at the next stop.”
Cliff fiddled with the buttons behind his steering wheel, re-adjusting the settings of the CD player for what seemed like the hundredth time, then smiled at me in a way I had once considered charming. “I’ll buy you a post card when we get to the mission.”
“I’m going to be sick, Cliff.”
“Damn!” He hit the brakes and skidded into one of the parking spots lining the two-lane road.
“Want to come?” I asked.
Cliff tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you getting out or what?”
I reached behind me for the digital camera lying on the back seat and opened the door.
“Be careful,” he said. “I paid a fortune for that camera.”
Yeah, I’d heard it all before. A heavy, ruggedized, full-frame, digital camera, with 22.3 megapixels, autofocus, GPS capability, and a big telephoto zoom lens. “I don’t know why. You haven’t taken a single picture since we left Menlo Park.”
Without waiting for his response, I strapped the camera around my neck and escaped into the unfiltered, unregulated outdoors. Ocean waves crashed, smashed, and retreated. Gulls kee-yahed, cow-cow-cowed. Cool air brushed my cheeks and fingered through my hair.
On reaching the wooden observation deck, I un-slung the camera, steadied it on the platform railing, and zoomed in on the Lone Cypress that stood some forty feet away. Although miraculously born of a seed that became stuck in a crevice of granite, the Pebble Beach icon was a disappointment—small; spindly; fenced in to protect its roots; supported by steel cables to keep it from falling.
And yet . . .
While positioning the tree in the viewfinder, I noticed the way it clung to the wave-washed rock, defying the elements that raged against it. “Defiant. Atta girl.” I half pressed the shutter to activate the autofocus.
Sunwalker.
Chills swelled over my neck and face like an army of unearthed garden ants. Who was that?
Sunwalker.
A voice. But where was it coming from?
You’ve come at last.
The camera clicked, whirred, and slipped from my shaking hands.
You must listen. Time is running out.
It had to be Cliff, playing tricks on me with one of his highfalutin technological gadgets, a hidden speaker, maybe, like the ones used in haunted houses to induce artificial paranormal experiences.
Beeeep. The blast of a horn tore through me like a shaft of ice.
A door slammed.
Feet pounded on wooden steps.
“What the hell?”
“Cliff! Oh, thank God. I just heard someone talking to me, but no one was there . . .”
Cliff picked up the camera, blew on it, and rubbed it with the tip of his shirt. “I knew I should’ve had it insured.”
Part of me was relieved that the camera had tumbled onto the wooden deck rather than the rocks below. Another part of me didn’t give a damn. “She called me Sunwalker, as if she knew me.”
He pressed the power button and the shutter. Click. Whir. “It seems to be working okay.”
“Cliff, please. Tell me you were messing with me. I won’t be mad. Promise. Actually, I’d be relieved . . .”
“Damn it, I told you to be careful.”
“Please listen. I think I’m losing my—”
“See what happens when I listen to you,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
For a split second, I imagined my fiancé plunging over the edge of the deck railing, helpless, voiceless.
Sometimes I hate you, Cliff.
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