Cassadaga: Breathers

By JM Milne

When Bret Wolf visited the psychic in Cassadaga, he could not foretell what the fates had in store for him. Through past life regression he was able to connect to his spirit self and find out who he was and how he died … and more importantly, who he left behind. But his powers do not fully awaken until he is on a quest to find the daughter of the woman he loves in current reality, and must face an ancient enemy. Through the wilds of Florida and onto the open seas, his pursuit of the the girl evolves into a mission to find his lost love to satisfy the accountants of time.

“Time moves in one direction and one direction only!”

“Love is the strongest force in the universe, Mister Wolf.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796052510

JM Milne

Jon Michael Milne lives in Wisconsin as spends his time writing. A fiction writer, he has written a variety of short stories and some “sappy” poetry. After a brush with death and having an Out of Body Experience at the age of twelve, he became fascinated with the concept of Reincarnation of the human spirit. Since that childhood episode, he has had two psychic readings and three Past Life Regressions. The results of these experiences are woven into this fictional story. Jon was born in Hawaii and has travelled extensively throughout the U.S. He is a graduate of Towson University in Maryland and is a NAVY veteran. CASSADAGA – Breathers is his first full length novel. Upcoming books; CASSADAGA – Spirit Guides SNAKEMAN

Book preview

CASSADAGA

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Breathers

A fictional story of rescue, reincarnation, past-life regression,

lost love, and justice through time . . .

JM MILNE

Copyright © 2019 by JM MILNE.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/17/2020

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

801461

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Cassadaga II

THIS BOOK IS

DEDICATED TO

the loving memory

of

EVELYN JUNE BUETZER MILNE

JUNE 8, 1925

TO

FEBRUARY 24, 2009

PROLOGUE

"W hat are you observing?" the voice asked, the sound hollow, detached, as if from a distant room.

A body, the other answered softly from in front of the diaphanous screen.

And what is special about this particular body? the disengaged voice asked softly, closer now.

It’s special . . . because it’s mine.

The body of Richard Reinhardt, Volusia County sheriff’s deputy, lay on the graveled parking area outside of the bookstore in the small spiritual town of Cassadaga, Florida. The driver’s door of his white patrol car with green and gold stripes, stood open, allowing the broken electronic voice of the radio to speak to the outside. He appeared to be sleeping in a widening pool of red, with arms folded, one circled across his stomach, the other under his neck as if cradled like a pillow. His left fist was clenched as if he were still in the fight that he was never in. Hidden inside his right hand was the neck wound from the bullet that led to the draining of his life’s fluids. Finally, his heart ceased his intended function, and the trickle stopped. Nothing more to pump. A small group of onlookers, not enough to be called a crowd, began to assemble, murmuring and tapping on their phones, taking pictures, as the convenience store clerk across the road dialed the emergency number 911. In the background, hardly noticed, a mother darted left and right while frantically calling the name, Bethany . . . Bethany . . . come here, Bethany. Where are you, Bethany? pleading words that meant something only to her.

You didn’t see him, did you? the detached voice said as matter of fact, not accusing and nonjudgmental.

Yes, I did, but I lost him, said Reinhardt. I didn’t know where he went.

He was with the other two but wasn’t really the lookout. He just reacted when Officer Reinhardt, the breather you, happened on the scene and called him out.

Where am I? the one called Reinhardt asked. I don’t see anything other than this gray mist.

Focus your mind and you will see what you want. Create what you want to see. You’ll remember soon enough. Your demise is still fresh, but you are once again behind the veil, the voice reassuring, calm, and serene.

And you are? the one called Reinhardt asked. You seem . . . familiar.

I am your guide, the one you return to as your spirit returns from breather form. You may call me Mentor.

Breather form?

Yes, human or physical form, take your pick. We refer to them as breathers, as they refer to us as spirits, ghosts or souls, positives or negatives. You can linger here for a time if you wish. There will be consequences to what happened today.

You mean my death? Reinhardt asked.

Somewhat, replied the guide. By that, I mean your actual physical death is in itself inconsequential. Meaningless. Just another shooting statistic, an experience you requested before you went back, by the way, which is why you chose the breather Reinhardt.

Reinhardt’s luminescence began to gain a brighter glow almost matching that of his guide. Reinhardt was part of but not the center of this incident, wasn’t he?

No, indeed, he wasn’t. It’s the child Bethany. She’s one of ours, so we must do whatever we can to make sure the breathers stay focused on ensuring she fulfills her destiny as decreed by the fates.

A special one, remarked Reinhardt.

She’s not the only one, the guide continued. Eddie, the breather who fired the fatal shot and allowed little Bethany to be taken . . . is not one of ours. He is a negative.

In Cassadaga, the warm evening was soon colored by flashing lights of blue, red, and sometimes amber, as the paramedics rolled the stretcher holding the cooling body of Deputy Reinhardt into the ambulance. High above the swaying trees, dark clouds joined together and swirled into circles to solidify into a mass of interlocking thunderheads. More dark rain clouds flew in from the seas to the east, escorted by bolts of lightning and announced by thunder, as unseen powers of intelligent energy began their work above Cassadaga. A single drop fell in timing with the closing of the ambulance door, and only then did it begin to rain.

Cassadaga (a Seneca Indian word meaning water beneath the rocks) is a small unincorporated community located in Volusia County, Florida, United States, just north of Deltona. It is especially known for having a large number of psychics and mediums, and has consequently been named the Psychic Capital of the World.

CHAPTER 1

"D o you believe in time travel, Mr. Wolf?"

Huh? was all Wolf could muster on such short notice. Caught off guard, he was still shaking the rain off himself. And how did this guy know his name? He had only introduced himself as Brett . . .

I said, do you believe in time travel? You see, that is why people visit mediums, Mr. Wolf—they want us to look into the future and tell them what’s going to happen, or look back in time to see where they came from, who they were, and, consequently, who they are now.

Well, I guess I’m here for a little of both, Wolf replied.

Then welcome to Cassadaga, greeted the little man warmly while switching on the old-fashioned tiny black tape recorder. Then he spoke into it, saying, This reading is for the purpose of entertainment only. Holding his hand over the microphone and leaning forward, he whispered conspiratorially, Have to include that stuff for the federal boys—not all are believers. Releasing the mic, he leaned back, stared briefly at the other man, and continued with Please, for the record, state your name.

Ahhh, my name is, ah, Bret Wolf, stated the man seated across the small table and was caught off guard again, looking as if he were perpetually confused. But how did you know my name?

And I am Dr. Leagen, pronounced ‘Lee-gin,’ but around here, I’m known simply as ‘the little man, he returned, not bothering to answer Wolf’s initial question. I’m sure you don’t care about my excellent standing in the Association of American Parapsychologists and that I trained under some of the finest PhDs and MDs in the field, but I have to inform you that I am licensed to do business in the state of Florida, county of Volusia. Sooo . . . Mr. Wolf, do you have any questions for me before we begin?

Well, began the other man showing outward signs of discomfort, just wondering how you are going to . . . well, you know.

Read your psyche, your aura? A very reasonable question indeed, and tells me you have never visited a psychic before. Allow me to start by explaining what I won’t do. I won’t use tarot cards or astrology charts. You see, they tend to cloud the accounts of the individual, as it were. Those methods, while fascinating in themselves, tend to be, shall we say, much too general. By that, I mean they try to link too many people with too many events. What I mean is, how could millions of people with the same birth signs have the same things in store for them in the near future according to their horoscope? So, no, that is not for me. I don’t wish to pigeonhole groups of people just from when they were born. So I will, with your permission, of course, read your palm. That is something biologically specific to you. And then I will interpret the impressions I get by being within the presence of your aura. If that is acceptable to you, of course.

Of course, I have no objections, replied the man named Wolf, since I have no experiences to compare it to. He looked around the partially dark room with its little card table and uncomfortable metal folding chairs, all of nondescript gray. Only a small unlit candle accompanied the tape recorder on the table. A small window on the wall he faced offered only gray filtered light from an outside dulled by the rain.

OK, then, resumed the little man. Now, if you have any questions along the way, please ask them. This has to be two-way communications. And also, be assured that I will not reveal any information that would have . . . negative implications, as it were.

Really? No bad news? asked Wolf. And why not?

Oh, don’t misunderstand me, exclaimed the little man, holding up a hand as a stop sign. It’s not that I refuse to face bad news—oh, heavens, no, he continued and let slip a small nasal giggle. The reason is simple and sensible. If I reveal anything negative, it may prompt you to change your normal behavior or routines in some way—you know, to offset the event. You may try to cancel it out, as it were, and that could have long devastating effects. Why, it could cause a ripple effect to sweep through our own current reality, affecting many events of not only your own . . . but also perhaps that of many others.

A ripple effect through current reality, repeated Wolf. So, in effect, you would have instituted a resulting change in my future reality.

Basically correct, agreed the little man, or at least one variation, but more than likely many variations of all possible future events.

But aren’t you changing some ‘future realities’ by giving me any information, good or bad? asked Wolf.

Yes, but the fates must have already accounted for that by the very fact of your being here, sir. Now, give me your hand.

Wolf started to respond but decided to hold his tongue and stuck out his right hand, palm up. His eyes strayed to the window directly behind the little man seated across the table.

The little man cupped his hand softly in his own and furrowed his brows, concentrating through the little half lenses of the reading glasses perched on his nose, at the lines and ridges that formed the pathways of the other man’s life, permanently imprinted on his palm.

Brett Wolf, lost in his own world, was only marginally aware of the little man’s scrutiny of his hand as he studied the torrential downpour outside the window. He marveled that the rain was so steady, as if it didn’t want to end and couldn’t remember when it began. Deep within his inner soul, it felt like it had been raining forever, as if it had always been and always would be, and that brought back traces of the previous night’s dream as a shiver began to work its way up his spine.

Driving west out of the sunshine from the Atlantic coast that morning, the mad storm covering the small spiritual town of Cassadaga had reminded him of a sinister mushroom cloud. It had clearly defined overhanging edges of white wispy cloud formations that capped a column of dark chaos that seemed to rise up from the ground. The formation looked like a solid mass that was miles across with the road he was on ending at its base. But he had been thrilled when his Jeep penetrated the veil, punching a hole in the unrelenting wall of rain and continuing on when the road disappeared beneath the water. He grew excited with the sudden apocalyptic symphony that tried to beat its way through the fabric of the roof and into his vehicle. On one side of the wall, blue cloudless skies invited people out of doors to run and play and splash in the crystal waters of the beaches. But on the other side, a maelstrom of liquid violence sent all living creatures fleeing for cover. And in the center of the chaos, directly beneath the mushroom’s dome, sat the town of Cassadaga. It was there he must go to seek the answers to his dreams, so a little rain wasn’t going to sway him. At least not today.

Throughout his life, Wolf had loved storms and the effects they had on him. It seemed the harder it rained, the more he enjoyed it. As a kid, he had dubbed rain the earth’s blood and had seized every opportunity to play in it, sometimes to the chagrin of his mother as he shed clothing in his delight. He could still hear the rain beating on the roof of his vehicle as he slowly came out of his reverie, realizing the high-pitched nasal whine was the little man still speaking to him.

Excuse me? was all Wolf could muster on such short notice, and he chastised himself internally for his lack of concentration and allowing the rain to lull him away from the task at hand.

I said you have an interesting hand, Mr. Bret Wolf, explained the little man. It tells some interesting stories about you, somewhat like a book if you know how to turn its pages. For example, it tells me you have known war.

Wolf shined his piercing blue eyes at the little man. He guessed him to be about five two and weigh in at around 160 with the fabric of his gray shirt stretched over a bowling ball paunch of a stomach. The little guy was bald on top with a border of hair that resembled neatly trimmed hedges circling his head and coming to stop on either side of his face. The hair on his temples was brushed back and colored dirty gray, blending and mixing with the hedge that was combed straight down. His ears flared out a little and, on first glance, gave the illusion of being slightly pointed on top, with nests of curly coarse ear hair dwelling in the lower corners. His brown stained teeth were uneven with a slight gap between the front ones and were intermittently covered and uncovered when he spoke by a wispy little mustache that matched both the gray of his head and the brown of his teeth. But he couldn’t pin down an age. Wolf suddenly realized the little man was looking at him expecting an answer.

Yes, I have known war, he replied quietly, and his eyes returned past the little man’s shoulders to the storm playing outside the window. Wolf sat erect in the chair, keeping his back straight. It was his belief that posture was important as was all body language, and he worked at it to present a positive image. Standing, he measured exactly six feet in height and weighed exactly 195 pounds, with the lean muscular build of a natural athlete. He still carried himself very straight with his shoulders back and his chin up as if he secretly wanted to be six foot two. Entering his mid-forties, he prided himself in still having the six-pack of stomach muscles that so many of his contemporaries had long since relinquished. His hands were narrow with long tapered fingers tipped and neatly trimmed nails. In sharp contrast to his light blue eyes, his hair was dark and held a slight tendency to curl, especially in wet conditions. A three-day growth of stubble covered his narrow face, and daily he was grateful that no silver was sneaking in like what was trying to contaminate his head when he wasn’t looking. Wolf was wearing a white polo shirt with a little horse and rider logo, tucked into pleated khaki shorts above khaki-colored socks rolled down to the tops of hiking boots, exposing tan muscular legs. He tore his gaze away from the window and spoke again to the little man.

Yes, I have known war.

Oh, I don’t mean in this lifetime, replied the little man undaunted and continued with his eyes closed. I mean, in former lives. I can see it in your palm, you see. You have the hand of a warrior . . . and I can sense that you have walked the battlefields of human history. I fear you have fought many times and fallen many times. You have walked away in triumph, proudly displaying your tools of death . . . and ridden forth on horseback, escorted by trumpets and flags, greeted by lovely ladies in flowing gowns throwing rose petals.

Instantly, Wolf was thrown back into the previous night’s dream. He could hear the swords clanging and men screaming and grunting as they wielded heavy metal. The ground shook with attacking hooves, and he turned to face the maniacal beast, its rider pulling up short and hissing in a sinister voice the single word CASSADAGA! And just as suddenly, Wolf was back in the room with the little man, who was still talking.

I said, you are a man of extremes, Mr. Wolf, the little man continued in his nasal monotone. You love in the extreme, and you hate in the extreme. You . . . He broke off as lightning exploded right outside the window, its detonation momentarily dimming the lights, as if there could be only so much light in the world at one time and any extra had to be deducted immediately.

I’m sorry, apologized the little man, this rain . . .

Wolf looked at the little man for a moment, trying to shake the battle scene from his mind before he spoke. I figured that if I lived way back during the dark ages, then I was probably a peasant or a slave. You know what I mean. I was probably someone doing some kind of menial brainless labor. But I had a dream . . . a very vivid and real dream I must add . . . of myself as a soldier in what looked to be the crusades.

Oh, you could very well have been a peasant, or at least born into that caste. But you must also realize that soldiering has always been a quick way to escape poverty. Look at our history. More poor kids serve in combat than those of the upper classes. But I wonder, pondered the little man, I sense you have spent a great deal of your present life as a warrior.

Well, yes, I recently retired from military service, admitted Wolf, but I never considered myself a warrior. Left unsaid was recently retired meant four months after a twenty-four-year career in the navy. He turned down a promotion and his own squadron command because of the time commitment that went with it. Truth was he had become bored, restless, and longed to do something different and was having trouble hiding it. He portrayed the image and persona of a man totally in control of his life and destiny, while nothing could have been further from the truth. He had paid a high price for the skirmishes he had been in early in his career and had never fully recovered. Now it was finally time to end his self-imposed exile from society and begin his search, seeking something that he couldn’t define, from a place that he didn’t know. But he knew there was something he was living for and that it was out there somewhere just waiting for him to find it. And his dream the night before only served to make finding it more of a conviction. He was convinced that somehow, that dream held answers.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. The little man was still trying to regain his composure after the lightning strike. He began running the index finger of his right hand down the length of Wolf’s palm and offering up quizzical facial expressions before speaking.

You see this line that begins at the base of your hand, Mr. Wolf? That is your lifeline, or what I call your timeline. That line accompanies you on your journey through life, flowing along like a river with all the little tributaries converging at just the right moment, marking the events that are uniquely yours. I see several serious events took place when you were young, probably as a child, and then again about half your lifetime ago. Perhaps a war, as it were, with you belonging in that particular classification that you belong in. Looking at this, I’d say whatever it was, it was tragic and caused you, shall we say, great distress.

You can tell all of that from my hand? Wolf split time between looking down at his hand and up at the face of the little man.

Oh, yes, yes, and much more, the little man answered, but you see right here where it ends? That means your timeline has finished its course in current reality.

You mean it’s run out? Wolf questioned.

Almost, yes, but don’t worry, reassured the little man, that’s very common for someone your age. You see, you warriors live such precarious lives that, well, destiny, or the fates, as it were, can’t plan for all contingencies. He held up one hand, palm forward, again the stop sign gesture.

"Let me briefly explain what I mean, Mr. Wolf. You see, time, as we know it . . . doesn’t care. Wait, please, allow me to finish before you roll your eyes. You see, we, as living creatures, exist in current reality to do certain things in preparation for the next level, as it were. In other words, we live to add different experiences to our spiritual resumes. But sometimes, sometimes life doesn’t want to cooperate. It doesn’t play fair, you see, and things don’t turn out the way the fates intended. For example, things like an untimely accidental death or incarceration or madness even . . . or in the case of the warrior, the violent death at the hand of another, who, by the way, may have been put there for that one experience for his own resume. Anyway, those things can take place and disrupt their well-laid plans. So, you see, the fates can’t plan to compensate for every possible type of interference that we run into, especially from other men."

Wolf stared at the little man, trying to absorb and understand before commenting. OK, he said, please continue.

OK, then, agreed the little man and continued. As I said before, time doesn’t care. Time is meaningless, ruthless. It’s impersonal and without fear, mercy, or remorse. It moves in one direction only, and if you go back, if you go back against that direction, you can only observe events that have taken place. Never can you effect change for future past events. So what doesn’t happen in this lifetime, or frame of time if you prefer, since the fates don’t think in deference to lives or lifetimes, will happen in the next, and so on and so on, which is why I refer to that line as a timeline. So, you see, whatever the fates decree, whatever is planned out in the larger scheme of things, will eventually get done. Do you understand?

No, I don’t understand.

OK, let me put it another way. The fates are nothing more than the accountants of time. What didn’t happen in this period, or fiscal lifetime, will happen in the next. The rule of the fates is, we, the accountants, will eventually collect, as it were.

I see but still don’t understand, so I’ll have to take your word for at this point, replied Wolf. He thought a moment before speaking again. So now I have a question.

OK, said the little man. What is it?

Well, began Wolf, what happens now that my timeline has almost run out? Does it mean the end is near? I mean, you were the one that said no bad news.

Oh, no, no, chuckled the little man, it doesn’t mean you are dying. Oh, dear gracious, no. It just means the life force has about run its course through you. It means you are entering new and uncharted waters, and your powers of intuition and, conversely, recuperation are not what they used to be. You must find other means to interpret your surroundings. You must draw on other powers to assist you with your endeavors. The little man leaned across the table and almost whispered, From now on, you are on your own, and if you have learned your lessons, then you have all the tools you will need to carry forth.

That’s fascinating, Mr., ah, Little Man. But I’ve felt all along that I was on my own, Wolf said somewhat sarcastically. I don’t see how that changes anything.

Ah, but it does, countered the little man. There is something else.

Don’t tell me, Wolf replied, I suppose I’m never alone.

None of us are, Mr. Wolf, replied the little man, shaking his head. None of us are ever completely alone, but I mean, here, on your hand, there is something else. You see, there is a major convergence right here at the end of your timeline. He pointed with the index finger of his right hand where the long line running diagonally up his hand met another major line.

A major convergence, huh, Wolf repeated quietly.

Yes, the little man repeated, a major convergence. Something of great importance is still going to happen to you in this lifetime.

Well, that gives me something to look forward to. But right now, I would like to know what lessons I learned along the way that are supposed to guide me through it. And, of course, the big one . . . just what the fates still have in mind for me.

All in due time, Mr. Wolf, reassured the little man. The fates will reveal their plan to your understanding on their own terms, and therefore in their own time.

Yes, well, I guess I’m beginning to wonder if I have even come close to their expectations at this juncture. Anyway, even if all that you say is true, I still don’t see how you can tell it from my hand.

The little man released Wolf’s hand and sat back, folding his own over his paunch. Most of it I can read from your hand, he confessed, with minimal assumptions based on research and experience, but some of the rest I sense about you. Tell me, Mr. Wolf, although I already know the answer, have you ever had a past-life regression?

Well, I know I’ve regressed a few times, smiled Wolf, but if I am correct by believing you mean going back to visit, quote, unquote, previous lives, then, no, I haven’t.

The little man didn’t bat an eye at Wolf’s smart remark and continued. OK. Well, it appears that you have been around for many years and have lived many lives. And just like this particular life you now find yourself in, one tends to collect baggage along the way. You see, unlike man-made things that degrade or rust away until they eventually disappear, close personal relationships built on the spirit level extend into future lifetimes, their bonds much too strong to be broken, and so they are there waiting to be discovered over and over again. The human phenomenon of love at first sight is a prime example of this. It is, in fact, recognition of each other by two spirits. But it starts with strong bonds carried over from previous encounters, be they friends, relatives, or lovers. For example, allow me to ask you a very personal question. Do you still continue to search for . . . her?

Wolf was once again caught off guard by the question, and a strong shudder spread quickly through his body, terminating in little bumps on his skin. He recovered and tried to mask the tightness in his throat, forcing himself to speak.

Search for who?

The little man used his most subtle yet consoling smile while thinking to himself, Ah, pay dirt. When he spoke, his voice was soft and soothing.

Why, for her, the one. The one you are supposed to be with. You see, I notice you don’t wear a wedding ring, and you came here alone, so I assume you are single. Second, you must not be committed to anyone either or you probably would have been escorted to this little meeting. The little man leaned back and smiled and then continued. Let me clarify that. A great many women take more than a casual interest in these sessions, and a large percentage of them want to know what their men find out about themselves too.

He watched Wolf squirm in his chair as if he were suddenly uncomfortable, and he witnessed changes in the man’s expression as it traveled from amusement to sadness and then was overtaken by strength bringing back control and a poker face. Men always reacted the same way to that question, even if it was the secret intent of their visit. Of course, if love was the primary reason for a man’s visit to the psychic, then they hardly ever openly admitted it and would often try to conceal if from the reader by asking their questions indirectly. Often, they phrased them as Oh, by the way or as Say, this lady friend of mine wanted me to ask type of approach. As if any psychic worth his time wouldn’t know. But women, on the other hand, were more open about it and usually giggled, blushed, or lowered their eyes, but pressed on stoically, wanting to know the secrets.

Yet this one was different. Suppressed thoughts and feelings were clouding his aura, creating an imbalance in his spirit that reacted like strong currents being held in check or hiding in darkness, as if something had just slipped around the corner. And there was something else too. Something wild or untamed, perhaps dormant or asleep, but definitely residing inside his soul. The little man felt the barbed talons of cold fear begin to claw their way up his spine, and he decided to pursue another line. He didn’t like dealing with a power that was potentially stronger than his own, and he crossed and uncrossed his legs. Working on a new approach, he was surprised when Wolf spoke.

I don’t know, Wolf whispered, perhaps there is someone I seek. But I just don’t know.

Don’t be offended or upset, Mr. Wolf, said the little man with a softened tone. Many people come to Cassadaga searching for answers to the questions of the heart. I confess I don’t sense that question in you, and you haven’t said, but I haven’t sensed any happiness either. The little man leaned forward and clasped Wolf’s hand again, this time tightly. In a voice barely audible above the dark and forgotten storm raging beyond the window, he said, I didn’t sense that the question of love was the reason for your visit, but it is. There is something you aren’t telling me, Mr. Wolf, and it may be something that even you don’t know yet.

I don’t know what it could be, whispered Wolf.

I will tell you something that I am able to tell no one who comes to me, the little man continued. You see, Mr. Wolf, there is a brilliant light of pure, unconditional love still shining out there for you, beckoning to you, waiting for you. And it is a light that has transcended time and generations, like the lantern left on the balcony, guiding you home after your long journey. I feel, rather than see, a circle of emotional passion that’s incomplete—not broken, mind you, but incomplete—searching for the other half to make it whole again. The final piece of the puzzle, as it were. I see embers from an ancient fire that are still warm and smoldering beneath cold undisturbed ashes, patiently waiting to be rekindled. I see a fire of passion that burns with immense intensity, Mr. Wolf, immense intensity. It’s a union that is not common in our world of current reality. It’s not even common in human terms of love and marriage. I’m talking about a love so strong that the average person can’t even begin to understand the meaning of it. It’s a unification of spiritual and physical essence that contains the power of the entire race. It’s a love that’s so old, yet still unblemished, still pure, and still true that . . .

The little man stopped at almost the point of choking, not having allowed himself the luxury of a breath as if a short pause would make the thread of thought unravel and become lost once more. A tiny drop of tear formed in the corner of one eye and began making its way down his cheek, while his chest heaved until eventually slowing down to normal. He sat quietly for a full minute staring across the table from the tall stranger and meditated, recapturing his composure and wondering where all of that had come from. He really didn’t know. It was like he had started talking about love to this strange light-eyed man and all of that had just suddenly been there and he could see it just as clearly as if he were watching it on a screen. For the first time in his life, he had viewed the most precious gift ever imagined.

The little man released Wolf’s hand again and put the tips of his fingers together in front of him, once again resting them on his rounded belly. He knew he was dealing with an enormous power here, and he wanted to find out more about it so he could take full advantage of where it could take him, yet it frightened him to continue. But he was even more afraid not to. Opportunities like this didn’t walk into his reading room every day. But how to continue, he wondered.

Anyway, he said as he eased back into his chair, the spell now broken, the tension gone, those are the major reasons people come to Cassadaga, and some from very far indeed. He chuckled slightly, more to himself than the other man, and said mockingly, ‘Will I be happy? When will I meet the right one? How will I know it’s him? Will my marriage work? Did I marry the wrong guy? Is that really my baby? How many children will we have? Will we always be together? Will he always love me?’ Or, ‘Is she cheating on me?’ And, of course, my personal favorite, ‘How, Mr. Little Man, how can I win the lottery?’ Heck, Mr. Wolf, if I knew the answer to that one, I probably wouldn’t be here either.

CHAPTER 2

W olf sat quiet a moment longer, ignoring the little man’s attempt at humor. Outside, the storm had turned ugly just as the little man had stopped talking, and now it held his eyes in fascination while a second storm brewed in his head. Random thoughts and confused questions spun around together with the little man seeming to hold some kind of mystical key that had unlocked areas he had kept well-guarded. An unseen wind had blown the settled dust off of sacred scars that he had buried within the grave of time, and now they lay as exposed as an open wound with slicing pain. Pain he could still remember because it never ever went away. And now, once again, those memories were brought to the forefront of his reality by the little man, and he would have to relive them, validate them, and then bury them again. Perhaps this time, it would be forever.

People say time heals all wounds. But to Wolf, that was just another big lie people told themselves to help them get through their lives. Time didn’t heal—it only scared over, covered up; the wounds were still there. Wolf knew that was the real reason he had stayed in the service. It was a convenient place to hide. He was always trying to find the next adventure, searching for it, longing for it. With nothing to come home to and nothing to live for outside the closed community of brotherhood of arms, it had been easy. But today, after all that time, the little man had opened the gates of his own hell. Memories that held the tragedy of his father and the eventual death of his mother came flooding back at him with a force that matched the raging storm outside, and it carried with it the most devastating memory of his life, the loss of the love of his life, Amber.

It had been her voice he had heard. It had to have been his Amber, calling for him, needing him, wanting him to find her. Maybe that was what he had been searching for all along. Maybe she had just needed time. Time to heal. Time to grow. Had he been looking for that pure intense love his entire life and didn’t know it? Or had he found it with Amber but the timing was wrong so it hadn’t worked? But why would he dream about her now? Was she in trouble in some way and needed his help? Or, was she having a dream at the same time as he, but with hers about him? But why now? Perhaps the little man and Cassadaga could provide the answers.

No, sir, Wolf finally returned to the little man and his question, I don’t know if I found her. I just don’t know. If I did, then I lost her again. His voice was low and scratchy, barely cresting the noise of the raging storm a quarter inch of glass away.

Then why did you come to Cassadaga, Mr. Wolf? the little man whispered. He reached out to shut off the tape recorder but changed his mind and withdrew his hand, intertwining his fingers with those of his other hand, reminding Wolf of living things seeking warmth, comfort, and security.

Why did I come here indeed? thought Wolf. The small eastern Central Florida town, located halfway between Daytona Beach and Orlando, was a haven for psychics, spiritualists, prophets, and charlatans alike. Known for its peace and tranquility, it was built on rolling hills with tree-lined streets and scented flower gardens, and was a place where one could get in touch with feelings, beliefs, or the inner self. Many sojourned great distances to avail themselves to the business of prophecy and guidance, the main enterprise of the tiny village. Those of influence, the rich, powerful, and political, visited under the cloak of secrecy, pursuing the upper hand in their own endeavors over those of their friends and enemies.

To others, the town conjured up images of séances and crystal balls, witchcraft and black magic. It was a place to be avoided, scorned and talked about in loud voices shrill with the laughter of ignorance. Lost to them was the power of spiritualism that, when combined with love and respect for all things living, replaced the dependency man had developed on his churches. Also lost to them was the connection to the earth mother, the maker of all that lived. And more importantly, lost to them was their connection to the father and the power of faith and therefore of life itself, replaced by going through the motions of mere ritual.

Then why did you come to Cassadaga, Mr. Wolf? Wolf left the little man’s question open and hanging in the air, disregarding it like the schoolkid who hadn’t finished his homework ignores a question from his teacher.

Undaunted, the little man probed in another direction. I think you’ve had some experiences in your life that you couldn’t explain.

Yes, I’ve experienced some things that I would consider kind of out of the ordinary, said Wolf.

So . . . tell me, Mr. Wolf, do you have explicit dreams, as it were? questioned the little man.

Wolf was startled at the question but answered it anyway. Sure, he said. I’ve had explicit dreams all my life. Some were good and some were even great, but some were scary as hell.

Then tell me one, please. Tell me the oldest one in your memory that was, shall we say, a bit out of the ordinary, pleaded the little man.

The oldest one a bit out of the ordinary, huh? Wolf rubbed the stubble on his chin with his left hand. OK. Well, there is one I remember clearly that I believe happened when I was probably seven or eight. I thought it was really cool at the time, but you know, I was young. Anyway, I dreamed that I was in a battle, you know, a firefight of small arms at close range. God, it was so real that later when I was in combat, I felt at one point that I was reliving the dream. Anyway, I dreamed that I got shot in the leg, right here in the right thigh. He pointed to an area on his leg, his long index finger touching a small blemish on the exposed tanned flesh. When I got dressed the next morning, there was a hole in my jeans at that exact spot, and I had a small sore and a slight bruise in the exact place.

And what did you surmise? questioned the little man.

I figured I had hurt myself playing and didn’t realize it, but my subconscious had filed it away and brought it up later, maybe to take a look at it while I was asleep.

Ah, yes, the good old subconscious, said the little man, shaking his head. A rather convenient depository for what we humans can’t explain, wouldn’t you say?

Wolf shrugged and answered, I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t conscious. So how would you explain it?

Just as it happened, replied the little man. You were shot, plain and simple, probably in the Second World War since the memories were so fresh and vivid in the young spiritual mind. The warrior, you see, always challenging fate.

So you are saying that I was reincarnated from some guy that got shot years before I was born?

I note a hint of sarcasm, as it were, but, yes, that is precisely what I am saying, answered the little man.

Well, I don’t know, Wolf responded. Reincarnation always sounded like a form of time travel to me when I really thought about it.

That is exactly what it is, breathed the little man excitedly. You see, there are several kinds of, shall we say, natural or biological time travel, and reincarnation is only one of them. But let’s save that for another time. Please tell me another dream.

Wolf looked over the little man’s shoulder again. The storm still raged outside the window, the grayness showing no visible depth and reminding him of another story. When I was about thirteen years old, he began, I got deathly sick. My mother thought it was the flu because, well, it seems all diseases have ‘flu-like’ symptoms, so, of course, my mom always classified anything as either a cold or the flu. Anyway, she figured I should just ride it out and take aspirin and chicken soup. And since we were too poor for medical expenses, I remained at home getting sicker by the day.

Instantly, Wolf was there, back in the cold and drafty ancient house where his bedroom smelled of sickness and urine. Through the soft white curtains pulled across a window at the end of the room, he could barely see the little man sitting at his small table in Cassadaga. The cold winter wind still howled, hardly slowed by the glass in the window as it skimmed across his fevered brow. His frail body was covered by four weathered quilts with frayed edges, and the sheets beneath were soaked with sweat, causing him to continuously move to another spot, trading wet for cold.

My fever continued to climb, he said, mentally climbing back through the off-white curtains to rejoin the little man, and I became delirious. I babbled about things that were senseless and invisible to everyone but me. I remember one dream I had while I was in the grip of that fever, almost like it happened last night. I dreamed I went to see my friend Jim Pearl. Wolf lowered his eyes from the storm to look at the little man sitting very still, mesmerized by the telling of the story.

He lived about five miles from me, Wolf continued, but across the fields or as the crow flies, it was a lot less. But I didn’t walk . . . I just sort of appeared in his bedroom. It was like I could think of a destination and suddenly be there. I remember looking at his curly blond head as he bent over his little writing desk that was tucked under a corner of the eaves where it was too short to stand up. He parents had converted the small attic into Pearl’s room, you see. I can still see the look on his face when he realized I was standing there as he looked around. Scared the shit out of him. He said, and I will never forget it, he said, ‘Man, your breath stinks.’ And I told him right back that your breath always stinks when you have pneumonia. Then, poof, I was gone, just like that, back in my own bed.

The little man sat looking at Wolf, a slight smile playing on his cherubic face, and Wolf knew he was waiting for him to continue.

"The next day, he told his mother about his dream, as he put it, only not telling her it was a dream but that he had heard it at school that I had pneumonia. His mom called my mom to inquire, and my mom told her I just had the flu, but later on, she got worried because I was so feverish, and so she called the doctor. He made a house call and confirmed that I did indeed have pneumonia, and at that point, a hospital wouldn’t make much difference—I would either die or recover. Of course, when I thought about it later, it just seemed too far out to be believed. Anyway, obviously I didn’t die."

How wonderful the human spirit, beamed the little man. You diagnosed your own disease and set in motion the events that would eventually save your life. Someone was pulling for you, you know. Perhaps the fates cheated you with the life taken earlier, during the war, and had to make it up somewhere along the line. Did you and your friend ever discuss your mutual dream, as it were?

Yeah, we talked about it, said Wolf, but we wrote it off as coincidence, you know, one of those things that have no explanation.

Now, I want you to think before answering this next question, directed the little man. Do you still believe in coincidence, Mr. Wolf?

Wolf mulled this question for a moment and then said, I really have trouble believing in it. I mean, the older I get, the more I think everything happens for a reason. You know what I mean?

"Of course, I do, Mr. Wolf. You see, the word ‘coincidence’ comes from co, meaning ‘two,’ and incidents, meaning ‘happenings.’ So it means ‘two things happening at once.’ Synchronicity, you see, Mr. Wolf. The universe follows a divine plan, and, therefore, so does man, or synchronicity, meaningful coincidence. But what about the sensations of déjà vu? Do you ever experience them?"

Doesn’t everyone?

How do you define or describe those sensations, Mr. Wolf?

Another type of time travel? he asked.

Certainly. The little man let out a chuckle, a strange sound filled with smoker’s phlegm that threatened to break into a cough instead of a laugh. But that’s not where it ends, is it? That wasn’t a question but another probe, almost sounding like an accusation, a dare to continue or a challenge. What do you think it is?

Well, answered Wolf slowly, I guess it’s a feeling of having been there before. I think it’s like a recognition.

Precisely! exclaimed the little man. But a recognition by whom?

I don’t really know, replied Wolf. By whom, then?

Why, by the spirit, replied the little man excitedly. It’s a recognition of the spirit of a previous acquaintance or place or situation. In some cases, it’s useful for survival since you have, in essence, tapped into some old memories. But we will speak more on that later also. You’ve experienced more since that night in your youth, haven’t you? Perhaps another out-of-body adventure?

Yeah, well, there was another adventure that was a bit different. It happened in South America during the last few weeks of our government’s involvement in the drug trades, explained Wolf. I had to take my helicopter in to extract some Marines coming out of the bush. Turned out my old childhood buddy Jim Pearl was one of them.

There! the little man shouted. He hopped up from his chair and paced the small area between the table and the window, saying, There, over and over. As he got too close to the window, he suddenly realized where he was and jumped back as if struck by an invisible hand. He glanced at Wolf and then again at the storm outside and said, I really hate the rain, Mr. Wolf. Please forgive me. It puts me on edge. He continued with his voice lowered back to a normal speaking level. You see the connection? The congruence? The coincidence?

Yes, well, maybe, answered Wolf. Because when it happened, I had been getting sick for some time trying to fight off malaria but was losing and already had a pretty good fever going when we finally got to the rendezvous point. The boys we were after showed up on the run, and we were hit before we could take off. Big mistake. I thought I could make it in and get out. But I lost the chopper and had to swim to the other side of the river with the bad guys right on our ass. Pearl had taken a hunk of lead in his chest through his vest, so he was in a great deal of pain and was leaking quite a bit. There was no way to keep up the pace, and I didn’t want to sacrifice the rest of the guys, so I sent them on ahead, my orders, and I stayed back with Pearl. We dug in under some heavy brush, and it was nightfall, which was also in our favor, so, of course, I was hoping they thought we had all kept going and would only give a token chase but not catch up with our guys. Just, you know, get far enough away so they wouldn’t find us either. But they didn’t. After sweeping the area for any signs, damn if they didn’t camp right on top of where we were hiding. I’ve never been so scared in my life. There’s nothing like being in the dark jungle at night, sick and with a wounded comrade, and your enemy parked right on top of you. Jesus, what a night.

So, ah, how did you and your friend get out of this predicament? questioned the little man.

I admit that, at the time, I had no idea what to do. I mean, I was sick as a dog, but Pearl needed medical attention right then. He was feverish and in a lot of pain, yet he never made a sound. I’ve always admired the strength he showed that night. Anyway, I tried to stay awake and figure a plan but dozed off and slipped into a monumental dream. Wolf looked away from the little man again and searched the darkness beyond the window for a land he couldn’t see.

Take your time, said the little man softly.

I know you’re not going to believe this because, well, sometimes even I don’t, but I dreamed I walked through the enemy’s camp like some kind of invincible warrior, like something right out of the dark ages . . . or out of a nightmare. But I had little substance, like I was made of smoke and mist. I know, I know, it sounds stupid, and I probably hallucinated the whole thing, but I could see those guys. And I could see them clearly like they were in sharp contrast to the surrounding vegetation, and the sight of them sort of jumped out at me. They weren’t green or red like in a night scope or thermal imaging. They were just, I don’t know, like they were 3-D or something the way they stood out from everything else. Stupid, huh?

No, no, go on. This is fascinating, coaxed the little man.

Wolf resumed the telling of his story. I remember looking at one guy. He was looking back at me in some kind of funny way like he could barely see me, or thought he could but really couldn’t or couldn’t tell if he could or not. So I got down real close, close to his face, and looked him straight in the eyes, and I saw fear. But it was more than just fear . . . it was absolute frozen terror. He suddenly came out of it and started screaming prayers at me, and another fired his weapon. I remember seeing the slugs trailing fire like mini shooting stars, and they passed right through me before disappearing into the trees. And I remember thinking how beautiful the whole thing was, with the man’s face lit up in the flash of his own gun and the fire trails shooting up through the trees. Funny, but it all appeared to be in slow motion as if I could slow down time at my own will. Man, it was like the slugs were so slow that I could slide right out of their way anytime I wanted. Anyway, all hell broke loose after that, and the whole camp jumped up, yelling and shooting and throwing things, and then they ran off into the night, crashing through the underbrush like a stampede. Seemed they didn’t care about the noise, but they ran so slow like they were wearing lead boots or something. Right after that, daylight came, and I found myself lying next to Pearl in the small depression we had carved out under the bushes, and we were alone. We found weapons and ammo and rations and some personal stuff, but no enemy soldiers, so we took a couple of weapons and scattered the rest before it got too light out. We wanted to get out of there and, of course, didn’t know what route they had taken or if they would be waiting for us.

And did your Mr. Pearl recover from his wounds? asked the little man.

Yes, he did, returned Wolf. And then he took his discharge and disappeared for a long while.

And you stayed in—the military, that is, stated the little man.

Yes, I lost someone very special to me and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, so I kept my commission.

There was a thick silence between the two men, and only the ancient drums could be heard, beating a tempo as old as time as the rain continued its assault on the dwelling. The spell was broken when the little man said in a whisper, Everything happens when this Mr. Pearl is around, doesn’t it? Everything happens for a reason, Mr. Wolf. Who saved whom in that situation you just spoke of? And, if I may, if I understood what you just told me . . . you lost your best friend and the object of your heart at about the same time.

Yes, answered Wolf just as quietly. I thought about that many times and relived it many more. And I still don’t understand the why of it. It was a devastating time in my life, but I still don’t see how you knew this.

Did you ever think that they may be connected? asked the little man.

No, Wolf said quickly, and I still don’t know why it happened.

But that’s the easy part, stated the little man. Once again, the fates intertwined to keep you on your journey. You see, the fates knew you needed something to keep you on the course they had mapped out for you. But what about after that? Have you had any other dreams that could have been out-of-body experiences?

No, none, answered Wolf, at least that I can remember.

I see, the little man said a little more sarcastically than he had intended but pressed on. Yet at some point, you must have questioned the power you had to be convinced you possessed, as it were. And having such power is too tempting to not use or, in the least, to try out.

Well, I admit there was a time or two I did try. But it was times of desperation too, of sheer loneliness, and I regretted it immediately. I didn’t mean for it to be perverse or anything like peeping. I just wanted to find her. Wolf returned his gaze to the storm that still blew with gale force outside. He was amazed to see the rain blowing so hard as to appear almost horizontal with the ground, what little ground could be seen. It was early afternoon but appeared dark as twilight. I don’t know how it happened, really, he continued. It was like I willed myself to see her, and when I did, all I wanted was for her to see me . . . to recognize I was there and looking at her. But it frightened her, and I didn’t want that.

So is that why you quit? questioned the little man further.

Yes, whispered Wolf.

Tell me, is this Mr. Pearl still around you?

He is now, said Wolf, glad to be off the subject of peeping. We lost contact after that episode I told you about, and after that, he was discharged. Didn’t hear from him for years. Turns out he had some kind of traumatic experience that he won’t talk about. Then right before I retired, he tracked me down through the VA to see what I was doing, and I told him I really had no plans, so I moved down here to hang out with him.

"It worked out, huh, Mr. Wolf? Imagine, just when you were