by BoJenn
Eleanor contemplated the plan and waited for more direction from above. Meanwhile, she continued thinking, as it would help in the strategy for their defeat.
“Stopping an entire cycle of evil is almost impossible for an angel to accomplish, solo,” Eleanor murmured to herself. “One human has to be completely dedicated to throwing a wrench in the downward spiral, in order to thwart any plan to the demise of a human. Even if that human were the only one fighting to make a difference, they would have to have chosen their mission before the foundation of their birth. Once in a while, it has cost a human life, and someone has gone down as a sacrifice. Often, those who have set the record straight, by telling the absolute truth, have fallen victim to evildoers, demons and devils. The devils always laugh when this happens—forgetting that, in death, there is rejuvenation of the human spirit.”
Eleanor was onto furthering her mental notes in preparation. “But, every time, when devils plan evil, from that evil goodness arises. That caveat always catches the devils by surprise, though, for they never seem to ever learn that lesson. Devil’s are neither smart nor clever,” Eleanor chuckled to herself, because the strategy for winning has always been the same. The settings and plots simply differ.” Eleanor stayed awake all night thinking.
The two fellows, Tadhg and Thomas, were involved in watching, listening and seeing; and their observations would be useful.
The next morning just as the sun’s light cast pink over the hills, Cat stumbled into the kitchen, not speaking or looking anywhere but straight forward. A flat and blunted affect, just as Eleanor suspected Catherine would present. Cat drank orange juice from the container and didn’t seem to care when it dripped down the sides of her mouth. Eleanor gave her a look like a mother who chose to stay hush this one time, but meant, “Watch out, next time. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Rough night, I see?” Eleanor selected the right words—words that weren’t punitive like those of Catherine’s accusers, the effect of which shown mightily in Catherine’s disheveled and worn appearance.
“Yeah. Bad dreams,” Cat said quietly. She held her thoughts at bay. She hated to rain on the fireworks display and parade from the previous night’s victory hollers.
Silence was sometimes the best weapon, so Eleanor felt the air using her keen senses, checking to see how the playing field was, surrounding Catherine. The vibrations told her who was in the bedroom, which energies wanted to control, and what weapons of warfare the devils operated in that moment and last night. Like a crouching lion, they had waited for the right moment to seize their victim, when she was alone and vulnerable, when the time was ripe.
“I would be willing to bet that you were accused of all kinds of things as you slept last night, am I right?” Eleanor looked up from the book straight into Catherine’s eyes.
Cat stared back, glaring hatred for everything surrounding her.
“Oh, I haven’t seen that look in a few days. They got you, didn’t they?” Eleanor searched Catherine’s eyes to see the damage.
“What are you talking about? Who are ‘they’? And, why are you staring in my eyes?” Cat snapped at her and pushed Eleanor away from her space. She then went into the refrigerator and took out the yogurt.
“Oh,” Eleanor said, looking, again, at her eyes as she held firmly her shoulders. Eleanor spoke as clearly as she could, “‘They’ are the little voices that whisper into a susceptible human’s eyes, and leach into one’s thinking—sometimes, all day long. They might have said to you, ‘You are no good; if you were, then you wouldn’t have left Thomas’; or, ‘You abandoned him, didn’t you?’ Maybe they said, ‘Gee, are you stupid—turning your back on the boy; and you’re selfish, too, for wanting your stuffed, black dog more than you wanted your brother to stay alive, isn’t it true?’ I rest my case.”
She looked at Eleanor with the yogurt spoon upside down on her tongue. She had stopped eating it right in the middle of Eleanor’s description of the devils’ doings.
“What’s the matter? The cat got your tongue?” Eleanor tried to jest; however, she failed. It wasn’t humorous.
“How did you know what I dreamed? I didn’t even remember until you just said what you just said.” Cat finished the bite.
“They’re called devils, demons, mischiefs, faeries, and more.” Eleanor thought back on the story. “They torment. That’s their jobs. They accuse, they belittle anything, so they can feed off of your soul. In a strange, mysterious way, God uses what devils have destroyed and turns all the disappointments into goodness, in due time.”
Cat broke down, crying profusely. “I left him. I let him die. They’re right; I was so selfish. All I wanted was my rag-dog. I’m a horrible person. If it weren’t for me, Thomas would be with me here now!” It was then, little Lovey brought the third box dragging it by the bow.
Eleanor reached down to pet his head, “Good dog. But, it’s not quite time for the box. Soon Lovey, soon. I will tell you, okay? Stand guard for the command, alright boy? Good job, though.” Lovey wagged his cropped, little black tail, and his pink tongue hung to the side with exhilaration as she patted.
Eleanor and Lovey worked night and day, bringing Catherine the gift of understanding of the events of the death of Thomas Dubois, and the gift of God's Love given through Lovey.
“No, no more boxes, gifts or anything supernatural,” Cat refused, and left the kitchen and went upstairs. She was tired of sleeping, reading or anything that had to do with staying inside. She needed to get out of the manor. While in her room she showered, put on her makeup and her walking outfit. The boots were in the mudroom.
As soon as she was geared in cold weather clothes, she ran down the stairs and walked out the back door, and around to the front of the house, and out on the road. She walked briskly to nowhere. She didn’t have any particular plan, just a walk to clear her mind. She decided to go up the hill and walk as far as she could. Coming down would be easier, so she could walk at least a mile, if the road wasn’t too icy.
The air was cold and crisp. As she walked, it occurred to her that Thanksgiving had passed. “Oh, well, I never have company, and Eleanor is from England. What day is it anyway? I’ve lost count of time,” Cat thought aloud. She walked a mile and stopped to go to the ridge. There was a lookout there, and the scenery was outstanding when it was clear and bright. Glory Town could be seen below; and, as usual, it looked like a holiday postcard.
Meanwhile at the manor, Eleanor and Lovey talked with Tadhg. Ghost Thomas drifted around the house, detached from everything, especially because Cat was gone. They all knew that, without opening the third box, Catherine would not experience the total understanding, forgiveness, healing and love that she desperately needed. But at this point, Catherine wasn’t listening. She was back to square one as far as they believed. Voices of the devils, and her own self-loathing, had taken over by using the blame game, although she didn’t really know them as devils, or the extent of their powers of the supernatural.
The devils work was going as planned; their messages re-played, internally, even as Catherine walked—like a hamster in a cage, over and over again. Within the psyche, the internal conversations were symbolically spoken, as whispers of iconic messages. The demons were embedded in the impressions made by fears, feelings, and the operations of the five senses that would compose her self-hatred. Cat was unaware of using the sixth sense to discern the origins of these thoughts. In fact, she was not blaming anyone, but herself.
Back at the manor, Eleanor explained Catherine’s dilemma, through mind talk, to Thomas and Tadhg. “Though God's voice is clear, many other voices are not; and yet, those voices are often interpreted as God’s,” Eleanor reminded.
Thomas asked, “How does one know the difference?”
Tadhg contributed to the explanation, “Other voices have chaos and panic spiraling, as if the medium is caught in a cyclone of confusion. Those voices should not be confused with the voice of the Almighty, because God’s voice, often delivered by ang
els, is always crystal clear—always peaceful, even when it delivers bad news.”
Eleanor jumped in with added definition, “God’s voice brings supernaturally joyful triumph, even during traumatic events. His voice never accuses. On the contrary, God’s messages encourage, and His voice never blasts. Even when He corrects, He is kind; and any ill event does not come from Him. When unhappiness comes, there are spiritual and physical principles that take place. Those principles never change. He never changes.”
“In ‘Lex III’ of Sir Isaac Newton’s ‘Laws of Motion’, the ‘Third Law’ states, in Latin, ‘Actioni contrariam semper et æqualem else reactionem: sive corporum duorum actiones in se mutuo semper esse æquales et in partes contrarias dirigi’, which translates as ‘To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or, the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts’,” Tadhg smiled pridefully after his recitation. “And, that,” young Thomas, “wasn’t easy,” he added.
Thomas looked at him bewildered at what was just said.
“By the way, old friend,” Eleanor cleared her throat, as Lovey and Tadhg looked on with question. “That wasn’t Sir Isaac Newton’s third principle of motion. God taught him those principles. Newton stumbled on the physical principles because the angels led him there. The principles were never his. They were shown to him so he could teach others. All principles are set in motion by the universe, not just on the earth.”
“We must do something to get Catherine back here… And, we must get back to work. Come on, enough small talk,” Thomas suggested firmly.
“Yes, but what?” Eleanor watched Lovey dance around in circles. He was excited and had something to say. “The third gift must be applied,” Lovey added his two cents. “How shall we? Time is getting short. I sense it.” There was a moment of thought, and the room was quiet.
Eleanor explained how the third gift would bring the healing of memories, and an acceptance that all was well, and as it should be. Its effect would mean there would be no place for guilt, shame, and painful memories. “Self-Loathing” existed as a lying spirit under the Father’s plan; and it must leave under His command. Because of that, the third box must be understood, believed and applied day after day, moment by moment, until “Self-Loathing” would be forever gone from her, and, yet, never to be forgotten, just in case the devils tried to return. They liked the home they had made with Catherine, and would not want to leave.
Back on the walk, Catherine stood watching over the ridge, as the cold air blew her hair across her face. She didn’t feel the coldness of the air; however, her frozen spirit was not wanting to yield anymore. She was used to the accusers and the voices.
“What accuser?”, she considered. “I’m not sure what Eleanor was talking about. If they are spirits, ghosts, demons and devils, then they have lived within me for more than thirty years.” She didn’t like them, but they felt comfortable. Not having them with her meant what, exactly? “What would my life feel like? What would it be like?” She couldn’t imagine living any other way, and that thought gave her more fear. It was the fear of the unknown.
“How would I live? Would I have to have fellowship with the people in Glory Town again? Would I have to forgive them? No, I can’t. I can’t forgive what they did to Daniel, or how they burned my barn down with my animals in it. No. That is too far out of my capabilities. No. The answer is no. I’m me, and this is me—devils, demons, ghosts and all. I’m comfortable,” she decided.
Eleanor, Tadhg, Thomas and Lovey sat in the den looking at the box on the coffee table. Eleanor was still explaining the reasons why this finale had to be completed, why people need their help, and the ways they could employ to help them. She advised, “The battle for life is a game of warfare, played in the human mind and heart. Often memories are the weapons used for the destruction of a soul. It has been said that water represents emotions; and if that is so, then Catherine’s emotions are as deep as an ocean and as violent as a tidal wave. The wave that came overtook her; and when it receded, she was standing in emptiness, isolation and loneliness. If she does not sincerely seek help from beyond, her life will forever be in disrepair.”
It would only be Catherine who could fight the war for her soul. No one else—not Eleanor or Lovey—could do it. Catherine would have to go alone, with their prayers for protection. She was to stand at the entrance of the war—her own personal battle. It remained to be seen whether she would surrender to a dark existence. Everything that could have been prepared for her was already taken care of by the Spirit, and by the messenger, Eleanor, and Lovey, the love of God. It was time for Catherine’s decision. The third box remained unopened, and there it sat in front of them. Catherine must open the box at the right time, and not a minute before.
Eleanor snuggled Lovey, as he sat next to her on the couch. “She must open the box,”Lovey repeated. Eleanor agreed.
“Lovey, without the box, we have absolutely nothing else that will help her memories. They are exposed like battered meat. Catherine can't live with the painful memories. But, the final decision belongs to her. She alone must choose. We do not force; we pray and support, but we do not insist our way,” Eleanor cautioned.
Lovey whined, “But the devils do! They force and force and force. They take their time. They have all the time in the world. They pound and beat and bother humans when they sleep. They never stop. Why don’t we?”
“These are the rules, Lovey. We play by the rules. Good sportsmanship is our way,” Eleanor answered the little fellow’s cry of devotion.
Tadhg said, “Like in golf—it’s a gentleman’s sport. The rules make the game more interesting.”
“But, the devils work overtime! We should too!” Lovey was almost in tears of rage as he pleaded for his charge—Catherine.
“No, Lovey, it doesn’t work like that,” Eleanor said, gently. “Choosing love is harder than choosing hate. It takes more energy; and it takes the decision of the human ego. Now, Catherine asked and prayed since she was four years old. She didn’t stop asking and praying. We come when we know the human is ready—ready, on their own, to make the change. That is why we seem to come so late.” Eleanor kept defining their roles with every gentility and kindness. “We do not force our will on humans; they must choose for themselves. Otherwise, it is a waste of time.”
“A waste of time? How so?”, Lovey asked, with his head tilted to the side, and his eyes showing true compassion as all dogs do, unless their own spirit has been broken.
“Lovey, each human must choose. If we make someone do something they really don’t want to do, then they, naturally, rebel; and will, more often than not, choose the opposite direction. The mechanism of rebellion lives in all men. God put within each one of them, the opportunity to choose His way, or chart one’s own course. It is a conscious act of the human’s free-will that must be made, individually, and without force. He forces no man,” Eleanor taught.”
“No more!”, Catherine cried as she stood at the ledge of the ridge. “Thoughts of Thomas and his appearance are consuming me with guilt, and anger… I was too young. A child of four. What was I supposed to do? What could I have done differently? Oh, I know, I should have cried louder for help. I should have swum out to sea to save him, and not sought to save my life. Oh, I could have…” Catherine’s deluge of tears could not be held back any longer. There were forty-plus years of hidden fears and sorrows behind her hard facade.
There, on the ledge next to her, stood “The Accuser of the Brethren”, “Guilt”, and “Blame”. “Jump! Go ahead. It will hurt only for a second or less,” they said, in turn. “Go on; do it. Get it over with. Are you a chicken about this, too? You’re a wimp. You have always been a coward about everything. You can’t even jump.”
The devils and demons stood next to her, over her, in front of her, mocking and taunting. “Push her!”, the Devils cried.
They made her mind see the thoughts of Thomas’ disappearance; and they distort
ed the images. They ran the story in her head over and over again.
“Play it again! Play it again!”, they said, egging each other on to replay the tragedy. “Stupid idiot! And, you are asking for help? Right. What God would help such a loser! Loser, loser, loser…” they badgered, relentlessly.
The words echoed, echoed, echoed, going around and around, getting louder and louder within Cat’s mind. She saw Thomas in the sea, and then saw him no more. Thomas vanished in the wave. Her memory played the event like an old moving camera that wouldn’t turn off. The tidal wave of remorse and guilt, sobbing and self-blame swallowed her up. The voices grew louder still. They continued to call her names and torment her.
“STOP IT!”, Catherine screamed over the ridge. No one was there to listen. No one heard. No one would know, and, worse, no one cared.
“Yeah! No one cares! You’re right! No one, fool, now, jump. Kill yourself. Get your worthless life over with. Ha!”, “The Accuser” taunted ferociously. Then, all together, “The Tormentors” chanted, “Jump, jump, jump, jump, jump. Louder and louder, until Cat put her hands over her ears; but it didn’t help, because they were inside her head. It didn’t matter.
“Jump, jump jump, jump…” the devils gleefully danced, holding their red claws around Cat.
“STOP! Please stop,” wailing into the wind, Cat prayed, though it wasn’t a formal get-on-your-knees kind of prayer. She didn’t know she was praying, but her spirit, which came from God, sent a message out to any angel who could hear. She needed help right then.
Her message was heard and the nearest angels armed for battle. “We shall not allow suicide to have its way. We will fight it for her!” It was the forest fairies, who were allies to the Master, who got the call and rushed to lean and push against her so she would not take the plunge. They whispered to each other as Catherine stood on the ledge between life and death. Watching through a veil, they mourned for her.
