Swans

By Petra Aeron Lohmann

From the author of Truth, Love, Unity – A Journey with Spirit, comes Petra Aeron Lohmann’s long awaited second novel – Swans.
In her trademark soulful style Petra brings us the story of Fernanda Magdalena Morales – a fiery Chilean-born writer who seems to have it all. Yet, her life is bespeckled with torturous secrets, demons of the past which engulf her peaceful existence with the ferocity of an erupting volcano on the eve of her forty-seventh birthday, when her life is thrown into chaos by a chance encounter with a childhood friend.
A tumultuous journey back to her Chilean roots instigated by the obsessive demands of her pompous employer – we experience her heartfelt struggle as Fern returns to her South-American homeland and confronts thirty-three years of suppressed resentment.
A true testament to the human spirit, Fern and Andes’ story reminds us of the power of the human condition which, confronted by the kind of “dis-ease” each of us face at many times in our lives, by some soulful gift is capable of transcending the human elements of regret, fear and resentment and forge its way along the path to Oneness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483542041

Book preview

Reyes"

Part 1

Restless

Twelve Months Ago

Parsley Bay, Sydney, Australia

14 September

1

Twelve Months Ago

14 September - Parsley Bay, Sydney

Fernanda, it’s what you put in your mouth my love!

For days the words tortured her mind, hammering incessantly, like a woodpecker in search of a fat, juicy worm.

What bothered her the most? Was it the reality-check her Amiga [friend] had inadvertently imposed on her, or that she’d used her full name?

Nobody called her Fernanda anymore, except business colleagues of course, and then it was only a matter of time until they too reverted to Fern or Fernie, just as her friends and family did - except of course when she was in trouble! Then it was suddenly Fernanda!

"Yes, that’s it," she thought, The name!

Fern knew well enough that her ravenous appetite - which seemed to magnify out of all proportion the day her mother’s antique robe was delivered - had caused her waistline to expand to the point where her Latin curves disappeared completely, and the thought of slipping into a dress, much less a ball gown, sent shivers of anxiety through her entire body.

Note-to-self! She mused, "Never ask your best friend –Why on Earth have I put on so much weight? – unless of course, you want a serving of the bleeding obvious, with a bold grin on the side!"

It was because she was an Earth-sign that her spirit longed to be near the sea, and she knew now that this soulful yearning had been the driving force behind her insistence that they purchase the rundown old mansion in the leafy well-to-do suburb of Parsley Bay almost twenty years ago.

It’s beautiful Fernie, but it needs so much work. Where am I going to find the time for all that? her husband argued on their first inspection, but he knew it was useless.

The house had a force of its own, and it welcomed them with the kind of loving energy that instantly made a person feel at home – rather like putting on a pair of comfortable old slippers at the end of a long, chilly winter’s day – and the view of the bay, with its tree lined banks, lush green foreshore dotted with the occasional old fashioned barbecue, and children’s playground under the magnificent backdrop of Sydney Harbour, left little doubt that even a pagan tent on the astonishingly large piece of land was an absolute steal at the asking price.

You’re being dramatic, she’d told him, You know this is the perfect place for the kids, and we’ve never shied away from hard work, have we? So it needs some paint and cleaning! It’s a gift. Under any other circumstances we’d be lucky to get a three-bedder on the outskirts of town at this price.

That’s my point. We’re from the suburbs Fernie. We’re not East Sydney socialite snobs, this is ridiculous! he’d remarked whilst signing the sales contract that very afternoon. Yet the smile on his face and the dreamy look in his eye as he gazed at the picture perfect horizon told her that he didn’t mean any of it.

Panoramic windows wrapped around three sides of the old two storey mansion, and the uninterrupted view of the sleepy bay reminded Fern of her home town.

This place has given me two decades of precious memories, she told herself as she slowly surveyed the lovingly restored home in an effort to evoke even the tiniest spark of gratitude in her heart.

Yet today not even the drizzling rain and silvery mist which curtained the view of the distant harbour, transforming the bay into a magical steamy cauldron surrounded by ancient rocks and evergreen trees casting mysterious shadows on the dew covered spring undergrowth – a scene which usually aroused memories of her carefree Chilean coastal upbringing - could lift her dark mood.

She took another sip of chamomile tea, reminding herself that her present frame of mind did little to address her immediate problem. Yet, sinking deeper into the oversized armchair, she loathed the thought of shopping for an even larger frock for the formal dinner her boss insisted she attend the following evening.

"This is an amazing opportunity, he’d said. Imagine writing a piece of your homeland’s history! Your work will be preserved by historians for centuries. It’s taken years to persuade Andrew to document his craft – his carpentry skills are completely self-taught - and he’s finally agreed to fly all this way to meet our writing team. Come on Fernie," he’d persisted, If you don’t hit it off, I won’t ask again. I told Andrew the same thing. Fernie, you’re a natural at ghost-writing. Don’t let me down, please! I need you at that dinner.

Damn that man - He knew exactly what to say to real her in hook, line and sinker!

Yet, she had to admit that in the isolated chamber of her soul the prospect of creating a piece of history was completely irresistible - particularly when the task involved a craft so dear to her heart. Even more so given she could write the first drafts in her native tongue. "Spanish is indeed the language of lovers," she thought.

Regardless, Fern would have preferred to meet the mysterious Andrew over coffee, where the only attire required was a warm woollen jumper, jeans and a pair of high-heeled leather boots.

"At least this restlessness is good for something, she told herself, rising, stepping back to marvel at the glistening antique robe. Not bad for a solid day’s work - not bad at all!"

For eight months it occupied a corner of their garage, wrapped in shipping blankets and old sheets, until yesterday when she’d begged her husband to help her unravel the cumbersome mantle and move it to the atrium.

"We could have gone on a six-month holiday with the money you paid to ship this old heap of firewood half way around the world!" He was right of course.

For almost a year she’d awaited its arrival. Yet, when the day finally came she couldn’t bring herself to look at it. "It’s the only thing I have of my mother’s", she’d told herself – and her dejected husband.

But that wasn’t the only reason she’d fought with customs officers on three continents over as many months, paid a king’s ransom to the shipping company, and prayed constantly that this remnant of her childhood would arrive undamaged.

If I never again run my fingers along its sleek majestic lines, or feel the smooth, silky Pehuén [Chilean pine] against my skin, it would surely be easier than seeing the beautiful robe broken and unrecognisable, she’d prayed to her maker, I need this. It’s all that remains of Him.

"All that worry over nothing, she told herself," chastisingly.

Fern had resisted the heart-sparked tugging of reminiscence quite successfully for close to thirty three years – barely shedding a tear when the news of her mother’s passing arrived. But now, utterly exhausted, absentmindedly trailing her fingers along the freshly waxed timber, gently caressing every knot, her forehead came to rest on the fold between the door joins, and as silent tears flowed stinging her cheeks, her mind began the tumultuous journey back to her childhood.

In her mind’s eye she could see him now, day after day, night after night, in a quiet corner of the abandoned shed, his young hands working with a skill far beyond their years, as his first masterpiece rose, like the mythical phoenix from the ashes.

With the wide eyes of a thirteen year old, she’d watched him magically transform the ancient Pehuén tree - toiling trance-like, cutting, sanding and shaping, until one stormy evening all that remained was to gently carve his signature crest along the centre of the robe’s ornate rim.

You’re a magician, she’d told him, and for the first time in more than three decades she recalled the joy in his eyes as he said, It’s for your Mama, for her birthday I mean – and one day, when she no longer has a use for it, it will be yours – and you will remember these days and smile, and know that I love you.

For Heaven’s sake Fern, snap out of it! It’s bad enough that you’re constantly berating yourself for your appearance – must you also start dragging out the past? her inner voice demanded.

In fact she was grateful for the internal monologue - having abandoned all resistance to the musings of her Soul at the age of fourteen on a nocturnal journey across the Andes Mountains - a time in her life when all seemed lost, and to this day she regarded that inner voice as her best friend and guide.

Indeed, you are always right! she responded, her heart feeling lighter somehow. "I do believe that in a grand robe such as this, one should only hang the finest garments."

With that thought, and the smile which followed, she hurried upstairs to retrieve from her bedroom the half dozen or so dresses she affectionately referred to as her magical gowns as, for reasons she could never explain, wearing them made her feel like a princess.

For a fleeting moment Fern toyed with the idea of trying them on, instinctively deciding to leave it for another day when she wasn’t being quite so precious about her figure.

Two hours later, perched on the bed in the guest room, she couldn’t help but admire His robe - now nestled against the wall between the two bay windows. She felt a great sense of achievement over the restorative work she’d meticulously undertaken this past day. Curiously, her favourite dresses seemed quite at home inside the carefully crafted antique, and the vision filled her with a warmth and delight she couldn’t quite fathom.

Something’s missing, her inner voice said.

No. No, all my magical gowns are here, she responded, continuing to gaze at the row of beautiful dresses hanging majestically on the hand crafted dowel.

Something’s missing! her inner voice insisted.

"Fine I’ll go check – if only to silence you!" Fern conceded, reluctantly making her way back to the main bedroom.

That’s when she saw it!

In the farthest corner of the built-in robe, was a black clothing bag – the kind supplied by an up-market boutique when purchasing an article of clothing that suggests finery.

In a daydream Fern slowly lowered the zipper, gasping as it revealed the rich blood-red gown.

Frantically she began to search for the matching shoes, combing the wardrobe twice before uncovering the shiny black box which contained the sparkling red fairy-tale slippers –and she smiled, knowing that six inch heals would hardly pass as slippers.

"Extraordinary, she thought, How the colour of the glittery red heals match the dress colour exactly."

Gently she laid the gown on the bed placing the shoes at the base, searched the tallboy for her thigh-length suspender stockings and a slimming bodysuit, and then began the ritual of meticulously donning each intricate layer.

Fern’s mind drifted back to the day she found it, stylishly draped around the lifeless shell of a shopfront mannequin in a little boutique on New York’s Upper Eastside. Her husband had warned her about shopping and personal time on business trips, but she’d assured him that her outing was purely to soak up the atmosphere of Manhattan’s vibrant shopping district.

As she recalled, the sales clerk had rolled her eyes when she entered the store to enquire about the price of the luscious gown, It’s a one-off, thank goodness. Coming closer she’d added, They were meant to send us a petite size 6, but for some odd reason we received a size 16, and no woman on the Upper Eastside is ever going to admit to being a size 16, the clerk whispered, smiling, So we’ll keep it in the window till the end of the holidays.... it really is such a rich, glorious red – and then we’ll most likely throw it out.

Fern purchased the dress for less than a tenth of the ticket price - even though it was two sizes too big - with the intention of asking her tailor to make some adjustments when she arrived home. But now, standing before the full length mirror in her dressing room she was grateful that she’d never quite gotten around to it.

"Oh my! she couldn’t keep from smiling. I’m almost too embarrassed to say this Fernanda Magdalena Morales, but you look absolutely amazing!"

Dreamlike, she turned this way, then the other, staring in disbelief at her reflection – noticing, with some satisfaction, that not a single trace of the waistline bulges she’d complained about days earlier, remained.

There stood a beautiful woman with plump breasts held invitingly by pleated silk layers which trailed in elegant fashion from the shoulders, crossed just under her cleavage, and somehow melted into the waistline to reveal the kind of curves that made a woman her age appear graceful yet sexy all at once.

Her eyes followed the figure hugging dress line along her torso, abdomen and thighs, delighted that the hem came to rest at a perfect length so as not to hide her sparkling shoes.

He did say dress as though you’re going to a Ball," she thought, recalling the conversation with her employer weeks earlier, "But this dress, these shoes, they’re just downright suggestive", she mused.

If her husband hadn’t left for an interstate business trip that morning she was certain he’d never allow her to wear them. Yet, in that moment she felt more beautiful than she’d done in years, and wear them she would! Suddenly, Friday night couldn’t come fast enough!

It was because they were gathered around the cocktail bar that they didn’t see her arrive, and Fern was grateful that the long walk along the entrance hall afforded her a few extra moments of anonymity - if only to adjust to her surroundings and also to steal one final glance at her gorgeous fairy-tale slippers, which glistened like stars in the night sky, rivalling the crystal chandeliers above her.

What a magical scene - I scrub-up okay for an old boiler, she thought. Her eyes agape with wonderment, she caught sight of her reflection in the dazzling contemporary floor-to-ceiling Gabrielle mirror directly before her. Good God! At the very least that mirror is the size of a small house, Fern ruminated, mesmerised by the glistening circular-patterns which seemed to frame the exquisite mirror, conjuring up visions of giant champagne bubbles infused with glittery diamond dust.

I was right to wear my hair up tonight, her internal monologue noted with more than a degree of humility – pleased with the way her trademark unruly mop of long auburn curls remained snuggly fastened in an elegant pompadour up-do. "A wise choice," Fern considered, grateful that the style somehow had an elongating effect on her middle aged moon-shaped face. Her large, perfectly rounded eyes were framed in deep charcoal eyeliner which complimented her olive complexion, and eye shadow in the softest earthen tones, adding emphasis to her dark chocolate irises. But I still think that blood-red lipstick makes me look like a vampire who’s just had a good feed, she told herself, smiling coyly.

Double Cosmopolitan, she whispered to the drinks waiter, removing the delicate chiffon wrap from her shoulders.

Fern! Fernanda is that you? came a colleague’s voice from behind her - and before long she’d shrugged off the numerous suggestive compliments of her workmates and found herself engaged in light-hearted banter debating the irony of her superior hosting a welcome dinner in honour of a master craftsman from South America - famous for his use of ancient carpentry techniques - in the private dining room of the National Museum of Contemporary Arts.

The