by BoJenn
CAT DUBOIS: ODYSSEY TO ENCHANTMENT
All rights reserved.
Published by BoJenn Books, LLC
© 2018 BoJenn
All photos copyright © 2018 BoJenn Books, LLC
or as credited, individually, on photographs herein contained.
Copyright page 80:
mirekkijewski / 123RF Stock Photo
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
First Printing: July, 2018
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
First Edition: July, 2018
Second Edition: November, 2018
ISBN # 978-0-9991150-1-5
Printed by BookBaby
Pennsauken, NJ 08110
Design and Production by MASON Communications
Edited by Sarah Harricharan, Johnson City, TN; Elysia Warne Elrod, Tyler, TX; and Ky E.S. Mason; Shreveport, LA
Look for “Cat Dubois: Odyssey to Enchantment” on Facebook!
Dedication
The main character, Elizabeth Catherine Dubois, is warmly dedicated to:
My father, Jim, who taught me the wonder of the heavens and the stars;
My mother, Babe, who showed us life’s magic;
Carol, my sister, who is a warrior queen;
Elysia, my daughter, who gives God’s love;
Joel, my son, who renders grace;
and, to Jacob, my grandson, who is God’s gift.
Most importantly, this book is dedicated to my God, who is patient with me.
Table of Contents
Introduction
GLORY TOWN
BRANDY AND REMINISCING
THE POWER OF THOUGHT AND TONGUE
HEALERS AND MIRACLE WORKERS
CAT DUBOIS AND THE DOGMATISTS
THE INSECURE
MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD AND DANIEL
WITCHCRAFT
WHISPERS, VOICES, AND MORE BRANDY, PLEASE
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
THE COMING OF ELEANOR
THE LONG ROAD
THE VISITATION, HELLO AND WHO ARE YOU?
GOOD MORNING. SMELL THE COFFEE.
THE VERIFICATION
I AM…BOX ONE
HE IS YOUR BROTHER
THE APPARITION
HER DREAMS OF TIMES PAST
THE DENIAL
THE BATTLE BELONGS TO ME
THE OIL
AWAKENED
SPRING
Epilogue
Introduction
“A scream was heard that summer day. Three-year-old Catherine’s screams echoed into the mystical wind. She told the wind to find Thomas. Bellowing into the breeze, her little heart begged, with vigorous might. The current carried her voice. It never ceased, until one day, I heard it. The zephyr had carried the message in search of Thomas. It had traveled lifetimes, into where memories dwell. In the dark space of matter, it moved, seeking the answer to the child's petition. It did not stop, until it found accountability. It had echoed, in and out of woven petitions, spirits and prayers, asking, “‘Have you seen the child, Thomas?’”
“Even as an older woman, Catherine could not stop the determination of the inquiring storm—to find the answer to her childhood question. The mission of the wind was to solve that petition. A request by prayer was sent that day, long ago; when it reached my soul, I came riding in on the wind,” Eleanor had explained that day long ago.
Tadhg Harding entered the story, wearing a warm angelic smile and kilt. Tadhg who had just recited the poem for Catherine added, “Eleanor wrote it.”
Catherine delightfully accepted the magic of an answered prayer, “At last!”
Tadhg now welcomes you to journey inside this tale of a woman named Elizabeth Catherine Dubois. “Everyone needs help—the supernatural kind—right?” Well, this tale is about the when, where, why and how angels, or fairy godmothers answer prayers.
“Welcome! Thank you for stopping by for a cup of orange and cinnamon tea. Please, enjoy yourself, as you settle in to a cozy chair and hear a story about the magic of love, the dignity of grace bestowed from God, and the power of deliverance from oppressive spirits on an older woman who was once her parents’ little fairy princess,” Tadhg invites, with a wink and a hope.
Like so many older humans, Cat Dubois almost lost her happiness to ill-fated happenstances which couldn’t be avoided. The only difference between Cat and others, who seem to dissipate by death in the vagueness of their pain and sorrow? The young girl cried out a prayer that found a way to God’s ears and heart.
So, He responded; He sent Eleanor, who came riding in on the wind.
This story is about the struggle of life and the resolutions that come to Cat many, many years later; but nonetheless, answers come, just in time, in a magical way.
“So, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tadhg Harding, and I’m the keeper of stories and poetry. That is the meaning of Tadhg, and this is what I do. I am both the storyteller and an active participant in this tale; and I am also related to Eleanor, an oh-so integral character. We are related by spiritual order and virtue. We travel through time, space and the world together. Come in, let us draw near. There is nothing to fear; this tale is an active adventure.”
Humans, at times, question the fairness of a loving god. Life can feel like a test of human endurance. Why are some people fortunate or “blessed,” while others ache with despair and tragedy? Why is the innocence in children’s beautiful faces often lost within hardships, over a lifetime? Why are some untouched by horrors and deep valleys of sorrow and hatred? Lastly, why are some on a non-ending roller coaster of frights and thrills?
In order to understand and appreciate goodness, the darkness must be known, as it’s been taught many times before this story. Behold, the light of God shall shine upon the paths of danger, for our own good, and lead us, instead, to the way of enlightenment for our spirit’s development.
We shall lie down in those green pastures, and there our souls will be restored. We will one day act like God.
“Could it be in a different dimension or lifetime?”, which, of course, is an age-old debate pontificated in sanctuaries and bars across a world of speculators from the righteous to the sinners. And, should we choose to accept the calling to a higher self, our assignment, or our journey into the syllabus He has prepared for each of us, individually, this road must, eventually, be travelled. If so, it surely is, then, that we shall be like Him, and see Him, in the splendor of His love; because, in human living, love, mercy and grace, are the traits of the Father who has come down from the lights and resides in our souls.
Unique, are we. Good and evil will be known, but few will defeat dragons in one’s lifetime. “Dragons are real,” many will say; but I ask you, “Are they real today? Are not dragons, real or imagined, just our conduits to godliness?” For within the very best of us, and the very least of us masterpieces, lie imprisoned spirits which are trapped by the flesh of mankind, or Adam. Adam was from the dirt of this planet Earth. Neither Adam nor his seed will live forever. But the Spirit of God will survive forever; spirit is infinity. We are not.
Then, there is the soul—the ego. The dual nature which longs for the earth or the “Adamic” nature. It begins innocently, then falls into God’s grace. The quest—our mission or lesson—is to defeat the opponent, the enemy of ourselves, our egos. So, this story is about defeating the challenger of God, who uses the voices of the accuser. It is the
strong one of this earth who whispers to the accepting Adamic humans all the reasons that failure is the final destiny.
The devil within is conquered, metaphorically, in isolated forests; deep-flooding valleys; on rocky hillsides; in snake-filled pits; in vast oceans where a single lifeboat drifts eternally; in lonely, locked cells; in cold hospital rooms; in the loss of a child or loved one; in burning towers; crashing planes; bombshelled cities; in an orphaned child; in unwed mothers; in life-changing events; until kingdom comes. The devil is appointed an unending reserve of trials.
The test’s purpose is to stretch ego and character into a form of divine inspiration. Sometimes it works and never fails. Perhaps, it is not determined in one lifetime, but in many. The soul determines the result for the lap. The soul steers the course. It develops; and graduation of a lesson occurs as we become more and more like God.
Our story begins now. It is the story of a woman’s journey from innocence, to enslavement, and then to freedom, within a lifetime. You might share the sorrow and pain of her battles, and relate to her innocence during childhood, which is magically experienced by Cat. Seemingly, you might experience and share her rejection from the fellowship of those with whom she grew up. You might feel her hurt, her loneliness, her isolation, and know her addictions as your own. And, just when you think there is no hope for her (or maybe even you), you may find yourself cheering because there is magic and goodness in a dark world. There are fairy godmothers, angels, and guides who do help us just when we need them the most.
I welcome you into the story of Elizabeth Catherine Dubois.
Glory Town
Now, Elizabeth Catherine Dubois, or “Cat”, as she prefers, lives in a lonely house in the Appalachian Mountains, in a place known as Glory Town. She is young; growing up is upon her.
As you sip your tea, I will tell you all about it. Hers is a tale of loss, troubles, enchantments, delights and the magic of God’s angels, fairy godmothers and other divine interveners. These divine creatures—angels, guardians, fairy godmothers, or your choice of moniker for those who carry goodness on their wings—came to Glory Town for the sole purpose of restoring Cat Dubois.
Now, Glory Town is nestled between two old mountains in The Appalachians, the picture-perfect quaint village of 11,000 residents, which is not quite as perfectly round a number as 12,000, but purposely maintained at approximately 11,000. Furthermore, the municipality is never allowed a population exceeding 12,000. This was written in the foundations of Glory Town’s “secret codes” and governed by the town’s three founders.
These three are: David Finks, whose wife is Hannah Finks, with whom they have three sons, Warwick, Winston and Chad. Next in the hierarchy is Robert Fletcher-Snuttgrass, with his wife, Jessica, and their four children: eldest daughter, Emily; middle son, Taylor; Claire, the next girl; and then, baby, Suzanne. The third family led by a founding father of Glory Town are the Thornton-Henchmens with their tribe: patriarch, Theodore or “Teddy”, for short, and Selma, his wife, and Hector, Molly and Thorpe Thornton-Henchmen.
Also of notable importance are the Reverend Davis (Daniel Davis’s father) and the preacher’s wife, Rebecca Palmer Davis. Other families, though less impressive, include: The Bartons—Henry, Ruth and their 3 daughters, Priscilla, Patsy and Daphne; the Johnsons—Larry, the town mechanic, his wife Mary, and daughter Tammy; then are the Millers and their two infamous sons—Dillinger and Cooper. Finally, the immigrants from France and England are the Dubois family, comprising Philippe and Catherine Harrington Dubois, and their daughter, Elizabeth Catherine, around whom this story revolves.
“Joy to the world! The Lord has come.” The crowning attraction of Glory Town is its famous claim as THE Christmas town most photographed and visited by tourist families with the delighted eyes of imaginative children and their parents, who still wonder, like children themselves, at the warmth of the holy season. Glory Town enlivens their memories like a picturesque scene on a vintage postcard, assuredly giving Christmas lovers warm fuzzies.
When approaching Glory Town from either mountain’s winding road, it appears like a Norman Rockwell painting that everyone wants, but only a few truly experience in a lifetime.
White snow; white picket fences; gently billowing smoke from the home fireplaces burning warm; and sidewalks, along which passersby smile endearingly, while wishing all “Merry Christmas!”, signal the revelry. Carolers beckon from the sanctuary, donning red choir robes and halo-white satin collars, heralding the music of pleasant voices in perfect a cappella, lifting up Gregorian hymns as the gothic organ opens with Bach's "Passacaglia in C Minor”.
The carolers, in a procession of holiday finery, continue their serenade to the corners in front of Victorian homes prominently, proudly, situated within what area, over many Christmases past, would become the town’s spiritual epicenter.
“Hark! The herald angels sing, ‘Glory to the newborn king…’” Everyone in Glory Town is expected to play roles demonstrating angelic behaviors at all times—and especially when guests are afoot. This whole town is a “Christian town”, hastening one back, in a heartbeat, to a Charles Dickens setting. Good behavior as far as one can see has been dreamed of, desired by, and lusted after, by those who have ever read or heard of the charm found only here, only now, this magical time of year.
The reputation of this little whistle-stop snowballed, bigger with every winter. Glowing reviews, and enough money to publish and mail pamphlets far and wide, made the traditions of these townspeople turn into the regular place of pilgrimage it is today. When visiting Glory Town, no tourist expects anything less than perfection. Who wouldn’t want to make this place home?
The improvements of puritanical whitewashing for the holiday productions begins each summer, with “summer” rehearsals starting directly after New Year’s. These practice runs include all residents—young and old—and require them to play their parts so well they’re second nature. By August, all the families congregate and begin re-teaching manners they’ve been teaching exactly as written and executed in the 1800s. The women sew new costumes each year. They rehearse with their children so everyone is in step: how to act, how to talk and how to dress as if they still lived in the 1800s.
Making money by entertaining tourists has always been a major source of income for the town. Aside from that revenue, each business is small—and there aren’t many—and their bottom lines are nil to nothing. They like it this way; that’s why the law exists that the town will grow no larger. No corporate world exists here—in yesteryear. Everyone depends on the gratuities offered; they come in all year long, now that even the tourists have been courted to remember tithing so the traditions can continue. Little other real employment is available in Glory Town.
The acting, the manner of dress and everything else has become such a way of life that sometimes neighbors have to remind each other what is real and what are now magnificently drummed up vocations. “‘Come,’ they tell the tourists. ‘Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.’”
It has become so confusing that some townsfolk, especially the older ones, just stay in their assigned role all year, shifting from season to season, talking in a dialect privy to Glory Town from nearly two hundred years ago. As they grew into their roles, they became them…except for some of the women who serve on the community boards. They dress in their finest “other” attire most of the time.
The locals take tremendous pride in the natural beauty of their town; and that goes right with giving thanks that they are governed by strict Biblical standards. The town is theirs—God seems to have made it and them just the way they are. Surely, it is a blessing for their piety, the elders say. And, though they welcome the tourists who marvel at their magical village, they are happy when the visitors depart. They certainly appreciate the economical gratuities. They benefit from the applause of the audiences they entertain; however they do wallow in the esteem. Glory Town is exclusive to their chosen few.
The tourists are the ones who now provide all the necess
ary income to maintain the town’s old architecture, the roads and the restorations to every utility, but the natives are very, very fussy about who comes to live, who seeks to stay, who stays too long after the stockings come down from the mantles. The visitors make them uncomfortable—way over their comfort level.
In the old days, they had strong persuasive men who determined when it was time that someone should leave Glory Town as soon after Christmas as possible. They would escort the interloper to the city limits, tip their hats and say, “Never show your face here again. Ya, understand?” But a few things had to change, as reticent as these Glory Town people are. They know who feeds them, and, now, people want to come visit throughout the year. So riding people out of town on a rail, so to speak, had to go. And with it went their smiles, now grown shallow, their Christmas greetings superficial, but their acting rivals the best of Broadway. The more charming the experience they provide the marveling visitors, the better the pay. “Oh, little town of Bethlehem how still we see thee lie…”
The steeple of the old wooden white-framed church is first seen when driving down from the mountain roads. It seems to welcome all from the winding path. But looks are deceiving, and the whitewashed paint is just that—whitewashed. And the winding path, it’s the most winding in the minds of those who live in Glory Town.
If anyone comes to visit outside the season of giving, the townsfolk know who they are, where they came from, what their intentions are…and when they should leave. The gossip trail is fierce; if one knows something new, they all do.
Of course, everyone attends church, and since there is only one church building in Glory Town, the Catholics have the evenings, the Baptists take the 10:00 a.m. every Sunday, while the Methodists have the 11:10 a.m. slot, and the Episcopalians secure the earliest services at 8:00 a.m. sharp, ending promptly forty-five minutes later. The Presbyterians are at 9:00 a.m., and the Pentecostals, which include the Assemblies of God and so forth, occupy most of Sunday afternoons.
