Fury

by John Coyne

  “If those lives are beautiful and benign and contribute something to the lives they are living now, on this plane, then I think the answer is that you consider them gifted. If the lives they are living on other planes create conflict with what they are trying to do here, then we consider them to be mentally and emotionally disturbed. And they all are the result of lives you have lived before, in other lifetimes.”

  “What do you mean,” one of the men asked. “Other planes?”

  Kathy Dart slowly turned her face in the direction of the speaker and Habasha said, “Other planes are dimensions beyond our existence here. These planes, or dimensions, are not necessarily stacked upon each other. Different planes may exist in the same place. Heaven and hell exist in exactly the same place. People used to think that heaven was up, and hell was down. But two people can be sitting together on a sofa, and one can be in hell, the other in heaven.”

  “Who or what are extraterrestrials?” Jennifer asked, thinking of Phoebe Fisher’s Dance.

  “Extraterrestrials are bound by the specifics of a time and the physical laws that govern their particular planes, wherever they are, but once they transcend those planes, they may be bounded by other considerations, such as weightlessness.”

  “We are all bound by laws. In terms of time travel, you have to know that time stands still and matter moves through it. Time does not move. Time simply is. Because all things exist now, there is no other time but now in any direction or plane. Therefore, the phenomenon of time is better understood as the distance between nows.”

  “But if you have a past life,” Jennifer asked, pushing the point, “how would that be? Would you have a past life now?”

  “Where did you put your past life?” Habasha challenged.

  “Did you hide it under your bed? Where did it go? Does the past just dissolve? Does it disappear? Where is yesterday?”

  “It’s used up,” Jennifer responded, anxious to hear where the argument might lead.

  “You cannot destroy anything, only change it. Can you say that the whole of yesterday is just banished from the face of existence? And for that matter, what about tomorrow? Is it all being re-created for you to experience anew?”

  Kathy Dart sat back again in the chair. She was nodding her head, as if Habasha had summed up the question.

  “Is it tomorrow already?” the young reporter asked from the floor.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m still confused,” Jennifer interrupted. “If in a previous experience you lived completely in the past—as we usually understand the past—-then are you simultaneously living that past life as you are living this present life?”

  “Perhaps. Let’s talk about the nature of existence. Is it physical or mental?”

  “Both,” Jennifer answered.

  “How much of life does your physical body encounter?”

  “Very little, I guess. I mean, just where I am. Who I am.”

  “And your mind embrace?”

  “More.”

  “More! Indeed it does. Your body experiences only the physical now. So everything about the nature of your existence is a reality of the mind. It is a reality of the spirit.”

  Kathy Dart suddenly sat forward again and gestured with both arms, then Habasha said loudly to Jennifer, “Do you love anyone?” he asked abruptly. Kathy’s head was tilted up, and her eyes were now closed, but still Jennifer tensed.

  “Yes,” she whispered, thinking immediately of Tom.

  “But you don’t at this moment have a physical relationship with that person, do you?”

  Jennifer shook her head.

  “No, you only have that physical relationship when your bodies touch. The real nature of this love is spiritual. If you did not exist as a spirit, then that love would cease to exist the moment your bodies ceased to touch. If you have knowledge of the world, if you have a sense of the past or the future, if you have a sense of the meaning of things, the purpose of life, it is only because of spiritual awareness. That is the nature of existence.”

  “And what about that?” Habasha asked next. “If you remember your life, do you remember it chronologically?”

  Jennifer shook her head.

  “No! You remember the most important things first. The most important thing that ever happened to you might have occurred many years ago. It might be easier for you to remember something that happened when you were twenty than something that happened two weeks ago. Or yesterday.”

  “Indeed, something that happened to you as a child might be much more important than what you do now. And something that happened to you in ancient Egypt or Atlantis or Greece might be stronger in your consciousness now than what you do today, here on the farm.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Jennifer said quickly. “If I had another life in ancient Egypt, or whatever, and that feeling is very strong in me, does that mean it is taking place right now, while I am also living this life?”

  “It couldn’t be very ancient if you’re still thinking about it,” Habasha said, and around them everyone laughed.

  “No, it couldn’t,” Jennifer admitted, smiling.

  “It’s obviously contemporary, then.”

  “How do you explain history books,” Jennifer went on, sensing that she had trapped Habasha in her argument.

  “History deals with linear time.”

  “Chronological?”

  “Yes. You must understand that what is called ‘ancient Egypt’ is only ancient because it is measured relative to this date in history. It seems ancient, but it did not end; it continues to exist in another time dimension, another part of the now, a part other than the physical plane you occupy at this moment.”

  “Habasha, why are you here?” one of the women students asked. “Why did you come to earth again?”

  Jennifer glanced from the student back to Kathy Dart, who was slowly nodding before Habasha replied.

  “Many have asked me that, Woizerit. Some say, ‘Habasha, do you not have a better place to go than here on this planet, at this time? Is there no paradise that awaits you? Is there no heaven in which you would rather be? Why would you come here? Why?’”

  “Because,” Habasha answered himself, “sometimes we see wonderful things happening. We cannot help the whole planet, but we can help some of the planet, and you seem more than willing to let us be a part of your lives. I am pleased. Pleased with what I hear, pleased with what I see.”

  “My message to you is go where you are wanted. My message to you is that there are some people on this planet who really want what you have to offer, and they will love you and thank you and work with you if you will look for them. We spirits look for those who are willing to work with us and to receive us, and that brings us pleasure because then what we have to share is meaningful.”

  “And I say, too, there are people on this planet, among your friends and acquaintances, who do not wish you well, who plot against you, and will cause you pain.” Kathy Dart raised one hand, and Habasha whispered, “I warn you. I have come now to warn you.”

  “Who?” Jennifer asked at once.

  “I believe, Woizerit, that you do know.”

  “Who is trying to harm me? I don’t know!” she said, raising her voice.

  “You are an unusual one, Woizerit,” Habasha said. His voice had slowed its cadence. “I see spirits, good and evil, who surround your aura and fight to dominate your soul. Do not be afraid. You are in good hands. Here at the farm, the healing graces will conquer the evil that confronts your mind. Much is being asked of you, Woizerit. You have suffered. You must be careful.” Kathy Dart raised her hand, cautioning her. Her head was cocked, as if still listening to a faraway voice.

  “How do I protect myself, Habasha?” Jennifer asked, pulling his attention again in her direction. “From these evil spirits?”

  “You want answers always, Woizerit. Answers are only part of the solution. What is more important are the questions.” His voice had shifted. There was an edge of anger in his tone.


  Jennifer felt it but kept pushing. “I need the answers,” she insisted. “My life, this life, you say, is in danger.” She caught herself from saying more. She glanced at Eileen and saw her friend furiously shaking her head.

  “He who seeks danger receives it. He who looks for happiness finds it. Your unconscious has been responsible for getting you where you are. So you say that the unconscious part of you is somehow manipulating your affairs. Perhaps you are more responsible for your actions than you know. But how can you come to a place in life where you are able to take conscious control of your life and not be the victim?”

  Habasha stopped speaking. Kathy Dart’s eyes were open again, and they were blazing, as if blue candles were shining from the irises.

  Habasha stopped speaking, and Kathy Dart suddenly stood and stepped away from the chair. Eileen and several of the young students pulled back to give her room, but Kathy moved with the assurance of a sleepwalker through the crowded room.

  She had turned away from the sofa, turned toward the wall of students, and Jennifer knew at once that she was coming for her. She should have left when she had the chance, she told herself. Now she couldn’t move. It seemed as if she were frozen to her chair.

  Kathy Dart stepped to where Jennifer was seated and, clasping her hands together, raised them to her neck and carefully took off her crystal. Grasping the stone, she placed her hands gently on top of Jennifer’s head. Jennifer closed her eyes, afraid of what was coming, afraid of all the faces watching her.

  “O spirits of the past, spirits of our lives, leave this woman, my Woizerit. I implore you in the names of all our gods to seek peace with her. Rise up now and flee us. Rise up and flee us, I, Habasha, ancient of ancient, Dryopithecine, Cro-Magnon, warrior of Atlantis, poet of Greece, priest and lover, knight of the Round Table, Crusader for Christ, pioneer, and profiteer, command the evil spirits that possess this woman to flee this plane, these dimensions, this human body.”

  Habasha’s voice had risen. It filled her mind and rang in her ears. She felt the pressure of Kathy’s hands on her head, felt the weight of the crystal, and then she felt the fire. It started in the tips of her toes, seared the soles of her feet, then snaked up through her legs and thighs. It tore her flesh from her bones, flowing to the center of her body in a ball of flame.

  She heard her own cries of pain as the fire consumed her body. Flames licked her breasts, rose up around her throat, and set her hair on fire.

  Kathy Dart grabbed her then, before she fell, before she disappeared into the shock and pain.

  Nada waited for the sun. She had made her paint from the reddish-brown clay by the river’s edge and carried it back to the cave. Now, stacking the clay onto thick green palm leaves, she carried the paints to the wide back wall that faced south. Soon the sun would reach the entrance of the cave, and she would have only a few hours of sunlight in which to paint clearly the pictures that exploded like stars in her mind and filled her up. She could almost taste her desire to depict the scenes of battle that she’d heard as a child, the great battles between her people and the hunters from the north.

  Ubba had called her to his side when he saw the pictures she had carved on the cave walls and told her to use her magic hands to paint the battle so that his sons, and the sons of his sons, would see what a warrior he was.

  “No man among us will forget the day we battled and killed the Saavas,” he whispered, “and they will remember me when my spirit leaves the earth and goes to sing with the birds.”

  Her mother’s heart had swelled with pride, and she, too, had felt her heart fill. She knew she would never be hungry again or want for a warm bed, for Ubba would take her into his own cave and give her to his son, Ma-Ma.

  But with the excitement was fear. If Ubba did not like the sketches on the wall, if something displeased him, then he would banish her from the clan. She knew of others who hid in the woods, who slept without fire, and stayed in trees to save themselves from the wild beasts.

  Sometimes she caught glimpses of their shadows, following the clan as it migrated with the sun, trekking north after the bears came out of the trees and the frozen north to slap at the fish in the swift waters of the Twin Rivers.

  Stories were told in the depth of the caves, stories of Ma-Ta and her brother Ta-Ma. Stories told, too, of Zuua and Chaa and the sons of the old woman Arrr, who was killed by the Spirits, struck down with the fiery flash of lightning. Ubba had banished her male offspring to the forest, fearful that the Spirits would strike again with flaming sky-bolts.

  As Nada got ready to begin, others of the clan left their fishing and came up from the river to sit hunched at the entrance of the cave. They sat and watched her with their large brown eyes, waiting for her magic on the wall. Nada paid them no mind, though she was aware of their silent looks. She felt proud, though she did not know the word for her feeling, and busied herself with her drawing tools, slivers of rock that she sharpened herself.

  Ubba approached the hillside with the aid of a bone, helped, too, by the sons of his sons, who huddled around him and bayed for favors. One carried a stool cut from the trunk of a tree. A dozen men had labored with the tree stump and fashioned for him a round chair, smoothed with river water and the oil of pigs.

  Now it took three of the sons of the sons to carry the chair up the hillside to the flat entrance of the new cave. Nada waited there, hunched beside the gray cave wall.

  She waited for Ubba to begin his tale of fighting the Saavas. As he remembered his battles, he told of how he fought with blood dripping into his mouth, it was a tale Nada knew, a long story that she had first heard when she still sucked her mother’s teat. Still, she listened, tried to find the pictures in her mind. She tried to summon up the images of Ubba’s past, the evil dreams that had come to him, and followed him even now, many winters after the spear had sailed through the jungle trees and struck his throat, leaving him to whisper for the rest of his life. She listened with her eyes closed, still sitting on her haunches, thinking of him as a young man, fleet as the deer of the north.

  Ubba stopped. The tale was told, and now the brown eyes of the clan all turned to her. She waited, pleased that she possessed the truth of his tale in her mind, held as she might hold a bird from a net in her fingers.

  She lifted the slivers of rock crystal and went swiftly to work, dipping their sharp edges into the red clay. She drew and drew, dancing before the crowd of clansmen, as excited as she was by the painting. When she had filled the back wall with the story of battle, she stepped away from the pictures, exhausted and afraid of Ubba’s judgment.

  She sat again on the heels of her bare feet and rocked back, not daring to look up at the great man as he was lifted from his stool to peer up at the red clay drawings.

  He paused at each figure, touching none, as he carefully walked the length of the south wall, seeing the story of his battle there in the pictures she had made of red clay. Then the old man stepped close to her and lifted her chin with his crippled hand.

  “Nada, you tell the truth,” he whispered. And he motioned to his eldest grandchild, the son of his daughter Noo, and said, “She is yours.”

  Nada fell to her knees in front of the warrior king and kissed his feet, as she had seen other females do when receiving a great honor from their leader. She was saved. Her mother and sister were saved. She let herself be lifted up by Ubba’s grandson, and she glanced quickly at her mother as she was led away to his bed of skins. Nada’s eyes sparkled with joy, for she had been saved by her magic fingers, and now the children she bore would someday be leaders of the people who lived beside the Twin Rivers

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

  KATHY WAS WAITING FOR Jennifer when she came into the dining room for breakfast the next morning. Several of the other guests were already serving themselves from the buffet table, but the house was still quiet. It was not yet seven o’clock.

  “Why don’t we have some quiet time for ourselves,” Kathy whispered, coming up to Jennifer and
kissing her lightly on the cheek. “How do you feel?”

  Jennifer nodded, too distraught even to speak. She let Kathy direct her into a small area off the dining room.

  “This used to be the hothouse when the farm was working,” Kathy explained, “but I use it a lot during the cold months. It gets most of the winter sun.”

  The bright, sunny room had a vaulted ceiling, large windows, a tiled floor that Jennifer realized was also heated, thick Indian throw rugs, and oversized chairs.

  “Sit here, please,” she went on, motioning Jennifer to a deep chair next to a glass table. “Nanci will serve us.”

  Jennifer looked up to see a young woman who had been in the audience during the last channeling session.

  “Jennifer, this is Nanci Stern. Nanci is teaching our New Age dance classes. That’s something I wish you would try. She also is taking my course on the secrets of the shamans, learning how to bridge the communication gap between humans and other life forms. Aren’t you, Nanci?”

  The young woman nodded shyly as she placed a teapot on the glass-topped table.

  “The shamans? Who are they?” Jennifer asked, unfolding a damask napkin on her lap.

  “You’ve heard the term?”

  “Yes, I guess I have,” Jennifer admitted, shrugging. “I mean, somewhere in the recesses of my mind. I must have heard it in an anthropology class I took once.” Again, she felt like a child in a room full of adults.

  “Well, primitive cultures had a person whose role was to act as the intermediary between the spirit realm and the society. The shaman altered his or her condition by chanting, singing, or eating psychoactive plants. There have been shamanlike figures in cultures as diverse as Siberia and the West Indies. Voodoo is a good example that’s close to home.”

  “And you,” said Jennifer.

  “Yes, of course. And other channelers like me. In a way, we’re modern-day shamans. We interpret the other realm, the spirit world, for people.” She nodded toward Nanci, who had gone into the other room. “She has a real gift,” Kathy continued, her eyes shining. “I’m very proud of her. And she has a wonderful relationship with Simon.”