The Sanctified

Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

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

Other Books By Author

Georgie Anderson/Michelangelo Deegan Mysteries:

Murder Most Graphic

Murder Sets the Scene

Murder Goes to a Reunion

Murder Stalks a Beloved Child

Others:

LOVE SONGS—The Exquisite Agony of Blues

(A collection of short stories.)

Hawk

The Malevolent Voyage of the Lorenzo Vittorio

A Search for Frances McGrath

(An autobiographical mystery)

Author’s Note

I would like to claim this book of fiction to be loosely drawn from my direct observation and participation in events orchestrated by a particular spiritual guide, my companion and mentor for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately, the very nature of paranormal manifestations is that they usually occur in the shady area between this reality and somewhere out there where photos are too blurry to mean much, and the soft brush of invisible fingertips across a cheek are too short lived to record. Nonetheless, when I think of Caron I get a warm feeling in my heart, and I very much miss his presence on the edge of this life.

I know it is risky to state publicly that this story is based on one that he put in my head after a slow drive down a mountain years ago. But since he is not about to deny it, at least I believe he is not, that is just what I am doing. If I have dates and/or any of the other details wrong it is because I am not always such a good listener, and, frankly, they are not important in the awesome scheme of things.

It is most often on the narrow path between fact and fiction that my mind seeks answers and my heart finds truth.

AMR

Acknowledgements

My thanks go to my old friends, Joe and Peg, for giving Caron a name and a haven, and formally introducing us. And to my very dear friend Penny who generously read the first draft.

I am also grateful to my children Larkin, Jacqueline, Sandy, Steve and Metta for their continued support during the difficult years and the better ones. They continue to be my survival and my love.

And special thanks again to Metta who has worked so hard helping me to put this together into a cohesive book.

THE SANCTIFIED

Introduction

Life was a journey back, a returning into the caves, into the shadows where clocks marked time in segments of seconds—minutes—hours, and things weightless became too heavy to deny. Life was accepting nerve endings that pinpointed pain as an experience of the flesh. It was a limitation of doorways, of meters, and a predominance of touching. It was a cutting off, a loss of memory, an agony of severance.

Inside his mind—if one could say that pure energy had a mind—rage built up like a storm cloud over a bay, a swirling counter-clock of frustration. It was not solely because he loved her, although he did—love being a universal bit of business that encompassed everything. That was not his problem, nor was love the limit of his feelings for her. He also needed her. She was part of him, as if she was the essence of himself turned inside out, exposed tissue and bone, guts and soul. When those were gone there was nothing left.

Caron had come to terms with the compromises existence demanded. He even felt challenged by the adversities, by the dramatic overlaying of one life upon another like pages in a book, each with its own unique story line, its protagonists—antagonists, because he knew all the lives had a common direction. He was one of the rare entities allowed to remember the threadlike theme that stretched from cover to cover, from prologue to coda.

Though it did not seem to pertain to him, he also accepted the primary rule that not only governed the process but made it all work, that fact of incarnation that limited each person’s awareness to the events of the life they were presently experiencing. Prior lives were as shadowy as the origins of myths. It was that unknowing that made every lifetime a fresh learning experience and tested instinctive responses which were, after all, the true measure of a soul’s development.

Caron’s awareness was not always the blessing it would seem to be. It never made life easier or life’s lessons any less painful. In fact it allowed an accumulation of concerns as heavy as the chains dragged along by Marley’s ghost. And like those chains his memories and cognizance were burdens of penance that held him as connected to her as Marley was to Scrooge. Life meant losing her and Caron was not pleased.

Caron loved her. Since he had focused all his energy on loving her, and she him, they had become more one complexity than two. That made their tearing apart more infuriating. And it left her scarred like a badly scratched phonograph record that spun every life back into repetitions of old traumas that she seemed unable to graduate beyond.

Caron had seen the moment of separation approaching. From some deep point in his experience he had foreseen the apex of that crucial life they had shared, and instinctively flowed beyond it. But she had been too tied into that life, too blind within its imagery to see beyond it at all. He should have recognized her inexperience and better prepared her, but he had not. As a result she had responded on a purely emotional level with sad results.

It had been as though he himself had fragmented, one half getting lost in the process. His first reaction threatened to explode the total essence of himself into a magnificent nova, scattering shards of his being along with his pain across the universe. Instead he had imploded into his own agony, creating a black hole of torment that sucked him in like a cosmic sponge.

He watched her rebirth with concern and swore that this time he would remain in the connective string between this life and the last so he could better oversee her process. He would guide her through all the old dangers, help her learn from them until they were recognized and healed. And then, hopefully, they would be allowed to continue on together.

CHAPTER ONE

From the moment of her rebirth the child fascinated Caron. She was a miniature Thérèse, red, wrinkled and squalling her annoyance at being so violently thrust out into the world. And when she blinked her eyes open he knew he would endure anything to be with her—even her unexpected name change. He hadn’t considered that. But Veneta sounded magical enough—suitable somehow. And it seemed fitting that she had arrived during a power failure, within the soft pale of candles and moonlight while the clashing crescendos of a major electrical storm provided a background symphony of welcome. Appropriate, he thought, like rows of trumpets announcing her arrival.

He knew her new life would closely parallel the last, though there would be modifications to allow a fresh approach to old difficulties. There was even a familiarity to the town, particularly the way the peninsula of Fox Cove formed a crescent shaped beach jutting out into the ocean. The houses were different, of course, an allowance to time and place. They were for the most part large white colonials built of clapboards with the windows flanked by black or dark green shutters, and nice detached buildings—carriage houses and later garages. There were a few lesser neighborhoods with smaller homes built of brick or cedar shakes and where some of the poorer folks still scrubbed their own clothes on washboards and polished their windows with vinegar and salt.

It was in one of these smaller shingled homes that Veneta had been born. It was a brown stained box of a house with geraniums in clay pots lined up the front steps. There was a shaded front porch where her grandmother liked to sit on an old rocker and watch the people migrating to and from the beach, only a block down the hill and across one major road. She held audience there, pulling up a metal table and spreading out her deck of cards to give a reading for anyone who asked. She was a landmark. If you pass the old woman on the porch you’ve gone too far.

To Caron there was something familiar about Veneta’s grandmother. He suspected that she may have also shared that past life and had elected to be an important part of Veneta’s present incarnation, an option occasionally chosen by generous entities. He hoped if that were so she would not make his plan more difficult.

He knew that he could not directly change any of the episodes that Veneta needed to experience, but this time he would try to prepare her better. He would be her guide—her teacher during her early years—until the string between his ethereal presence and hers touched and allowed him to take a more active roll. His impatience would be his penance.

During the first few years Caron restricted his involvement to speaking soft calming words in her ears, whispers that she might later recall. He was intrigued with her complete absorption with her new existence. She studied every nuance, mimicked every sound, and took pleasure in each taste and touch. As a toddler she was a mobile, inquisitive child, too adventurous from his point of view. She was into everything. His was a game of keeping one step ahead, of scattering butterflies to delight her or blowing the dandelion seedlings in clouds just beyond her reach. But never did he remove a thorny branch or intercept a runaway little wagon. They were a couple of the things that had been patterned that he was not allowed to change, at least not at that time.

And he only let her see him once in those early days. He hadn’t intended to and it jarred him into realizing he was not as fully in control as he had planned. She had followed two other children into the road on their way to a forbidden candy store, and into the path of an oncoming car. But even then, he could not stop the happening. In that crushing flash of defeat he slowed time for an instant, just to permit one final agony of contact. He leaned to lift her chin, looked into her young child eyes. Oh, Thérèse, you always have had such a propensity for trouble. But when time was released and he stepped away, he saw that the car had swerved. She was safe and looking directly at him as though for a moment the curtain had lifted and she knew him.

When she was a bit older Veneta’s grandmother taught her to believe in miracles as well as the inexplicable rocking of empty rocking chairs, the ominous portents of singular blackbirds, and howling dogs as well as innumerable other omens. And every evening after the tide of visitors to the front porch had abated and the supper dishes were cleared away, the older woman would spread her cards across the kitchen table and read for the family. Queen—Jack—Ten—Ace—Spades—Hearts—Diamonds… The child loved that time. She’d kneel on the chair seat resting her arms on the cool enamel tabletop so she could watch the cards as they turned up. Queen—Jack—Ten—Ace—Spades—Hearts—Diamonds… That’s a building, Veneta. A school or a hospital. The cards made a quiet snap as they hit the surface. This card means tears, and here—a letter from a friend.

I never get letters, Grandma, Veneta reminded her, her lower lip pushed out in an impatient pout. Read for me! Will I get my bike? That was my wish! Will I get it?

Hush, the cards can’t be rushed. If it’s to be, it’s to be.

You needn’t worry, sweetheart, her mother said from where she was drying dishes at the sink. Sooner or later you seem to get your wishes. I suspect you have an overindulgent ally who spoils you more than I would, even if he can’t afford it. She was thinking about Veneta’s hardworking father rather than anything more ethereal. The man would give his daughter the world if he had the means.

Caron didn’t give her bikes or new shoes or any of the other things she wished for during those card-reading sessions. But he did stay close to her. Those years were best for teaching and he took advantage of that. He became her mentor, whispering lessons in her dreams. And once he had her attention, he led her through a number of out of body experiences, each patterned on a theme of living and dying so she would see how one was only a continuation of the other. One night he took her along the burning corridor of a nursing home in Ohio. On another they rode a plane down with a young pilot who crashed on a freezing hillside in upstate New York. He comforted her while she wept over a boy who died in an overturned tank during army maneuvers in Texas, and stood behind her when she held the hand of a woman trapped in her car on a highway south of Boston. And following each excursion he explained again that a person was only allowed to experience as much pain as they could endure and that dying happened in a fragment of a second, so she would not forget.

Her parents eventually noticed that she had an uncanny awareness of things not normally accessible to youngsters. She always gave the same answer to their questions. My friend showed me. My friend took me there. My friend said Mrs. Collins should not miss her baby so much. They were concerned, particularly when others began to wonder as well. There were bound to be repercussions.

Then there was the day in the late spring when Caron watched her ambling down along the edge of the water trailing a strip of seaweed so its curling slickness slapped through the waves foaming like Belgian lace against her feet. It was hot enough for a bathing suit but still too cool for a long swim, particularly in the cold north Atlantic. It was a lazy day with school out and no chores on the list her mom put on the icebox, a free day. She let go of the seaweed and laughed as the waves rolled it against her feet where it clung a moment like a child reluctant to abandon its mother. Then it slithered off on the backwash. She stooped to pick up a stone and examine the fine lines that fragmented its surface. Pretty, she thought, then effortlessly skipped it across the whitecaps.

Caron spotted a woman further up the beach, and this time he did recognize her, though she was ancient and extremely bowed by age. And he wondered how many had elected to return here, to rectify their mistakes or abuses or possibly to learn some new lesson. She was a miniscule woman who resembled, in fact, an illustration of a mystical crone in one of Veneta’s fairytale books.

Veneta walked in the woman’s direction. She watched her bend lower periodically to scoop up some found treasure, a coin—a ring—a bit of paper, and drop it into the frayed burlap sack hanging from her waist. Hello, Mrs. Valentino! she called. Find anything interesting today?

Eh? the old woman started. She twisted to look up at the girl. Eh? she repeated, snatching the sack against her body protectively. Don’t you come near! I know what you are! she shrilled, shuffling backward. "I know. La Strega—Witch. I know!" Then scurrying sideward like a crab she fled across the sand and up the concrete ramp to the break wall.

So it has begun, he thought. He could see the stunned look on Veneta’s face and watched as she turned and charged into the cold surf.

"Tante, Caron whispered in the old woman’s ear, leave her be!"

She called me a witch, Grandma. She screamed it! And she looked scared like she expected me to do something bad to her. Why would she call me that?

She’s a superstitious old woman, is all.

But that’s what the kids call me too. They say we are all witches because you read cards like the gypsy in the booth in the park and because Momma does too.

Fools, Grandma said. But you need to hold your tongue more, child. Be careful what you say around folks. Time you learned to accept what’s been God-given and be grateful. You are different and that’s a fact. No good arguing that.

But I don’t want to be different. She felt as if her chest were on fire. I hate them all.

Her grandmother stopped rocking and reached up to shake the child. Shush—shush! Haven’t you more sense than getting upset over such foolishness? That old woman was born a fool and always will be one, a superstitious old fool. And the others are no better. Ignorant, the lot of ‘em.

Caron watched as she grew older and more accepting of the oddness of her world. Even though she wanted to be like everyone else, one part of her folded her uniqueness around her like a warm blanket. She remembered her excursions with Caron though she could not recall his face, that detail left in her deep sleep. But the lessons were close enough for her to believe, in spite of all indications to the contrary, that she really could leave her body on her bed and fly at night. She could also feel compassionate curiosity about the other people around her. Grief had a certain color to it and illness its own color too. Happiness had a simple clarity because it didn’t require compensation.

In spite of all that, most of the time she was just a competitive kid, working hard in school and playing kick the can with the other kids in the afternoons before dark. Compassion was not a factor, nor was curiosity. There was only the game and acceptance.

And gradually the witch business became old news. Veneta was pleased about that—though there were times when she’d hunt up her old playing cards, the deck she’d gotten in some early Christmas stocking, and try reading them. She could shuffle with dexterity, and deal them out with a really good smack on the tabletop. But she never managed any more than that. She simply couldn’t remember what each card meant without a crib sheet, a handicap that surely meant she was not so different after all.

By the time she was in high school Veneta was accustomed to her duality. Though one side of her tended toward the psychic, she suppressed it beneath her alternate persona of a typical teenager. She cheered at football games, dressed in a letter sweater and penny loafers, and wore a pink frothy dress on prom night. And she decided she wanted nothing more beyond that existence of swing band music and heavy crushes.

Veneta, of the pink prom dress, married Jack Martin in September following her graduation from high school. Caron had difficulty with their courtship, as much because of her age as their intimacy. Was she never going to be allowed to grow up, he groused. She was seventeen, Jack a college graduate of twenty, his world solidly singular. In order to accommodate him she promised to honor and obey—and diminish any unruly multidimensional mind abstractions.

With her new status she quickly changed from child to adult. And Caron waited in a deep place, emerging only when he seemed needed, on the nights her daughters were born or when they were threateningly ill as happens to children occasionally. And when she was feeling inexplicably lonely for something she could not pin down he would move close and brush words so silently into her ears they were more air than voice.

Jack’s job required them to relocate periodically. They lived in Boston, outside Portland, Oregon, and finally settled in Sydney, Australia. Caron waited as one lifetime slowly converged with the other. And the closer that came, the more impatient and anxious he became.

CHAPTER TWO

Australian names are so pleasantly musical, she thought, putting the frozen plastic orange into Ellen’s lunch container. Everything around her was in stages of unpacking. A couple of days earlier they had moved from the rented house in Warrawee to their new home in Turramurra. She was a bit behind schedule settling in because she had stopped unpacking boxes