Cassie's Dream

By Jean Marie Ivey

Fighting against the images, she could not see their faces, nor could she determine the time, the place, or what was responsible for the event. “Who are those people?” she thought. Where are they going? What was to become of them?” she asked herself. “How can I, a young girl, convince them of what is coming and what must be done?” All this she pondered and was filled with anxiety.

Cassandra Wright is a young girl living in Maine at the turn of the twentieth century. She has dreams of a pending disaster—a mystery that needs to be solved. Her visions transport her through family history from the American Revolution, her Irish ancestors and their journey to America, the war between the states, life in Maine, and visions far into her future. Her story is about love—love of family, love of heritage, love of Maine and its people. There is a mystery to be solved, and Cassie must find the answers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781684095186

Book preview

Chapter One

Cassie’s Dream

At Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true when here they’ve done their duty. The bowl of grog shall still renew

And pledge to love and beauty.

Cassie had a troubled look on her young freckled face. Standing on the sandy beach, her toes wiggling in the ebb and flow of the tide, she gazed over the water that sparkled gold in the evening light. Her hair reflected the rays of the setting sun as the cold waves washed over her bare feet, sending a chill through her lightly clad body. Overhead were three seagulls, making coaxing noises as they watched intently waiting for the morsel of bread she usually held out to them in her small, gentle hand. She loved the gulls. At times it seemed they were her only friends. She was a lonely child. Other children thought her strange. Cassie was like her namesake Cassandra, the beautiful oracle in Greek mythology, who also saw things that others could or would not see. Most folks felt uncomfortable with the telling of her visions and left her by herself to ponder what was to come. But today, there was no treat for the birds. She had run quickly from the cottage, thinking only of her dream from the night before. Even her mother scolded her for fantasizing.

You have a vivid imagination, child, and you scare people.

I can’t help it, Mother. It seems so real. And she would find a quiet place and read her beloved books to pass the time and take her mind away from the unwanted thoughts.

On this day, she walked along the beach and stopped to sit on a large pink granite rock amongst sea lavender and goldenrod. A gentle breeze swept her hair from her face as her mind returned to her vision.

She buried her face in a bouquet of wild roses she had picked along the way in an attempt to purge the unwanted thoughts, but they would not be denied.

As a mist clouded her senses, she heard screaming voices: men, women, and children. She saw many souls floundering in the waves, grasping for any piece of wreckage, being tossed in the raging waters like dry leaves, their clothing drawing them down to Fiddler’s Green.¹

Fighting against the images, she could not see their faces; nor could she determine the time, the place, or what was responsible for the event. Who are those people? she thought. Where are they going? What was to become of them? she asked herself. How can I, a young girl, convince them of what is coming and what must be done? All this she pondered and was filled with anxiety.

Then the imagery faded and was replaced by the beam from the light beacon on a distant peninsula. A feeling of peace replaced the anguish. Her reprieve would be brief. Cassie knew she had to have more information. She needed to dream again.

As the sky darkened, she wondered when she would be missed. In the twilight, she looked toward the lighthouse far out on a rocky pinnacle. She loved the glowing beacon that pulsed comfort and guidance to wayward mariners and instilled in her a sense of peace.

As she watched the light wash over the coast, she imagined her mother calling and saw her young brother running toward her. She scrambled toward a rock nestled in amongst wild roses and beach peas, where her outer garments were piled in a heap. She quickly pulled her white muslin dress over her head as she hurried toward the little boy, her feet sinking into the cold, wet sand.

Where have you been, Cassie? Mother is worried, and your supper is cold. Placing his hand in hers, she replied, It’s okay, Jamie. Let’s go home now.

They skipped together in the fading light and soon came to the path leading to the village.

Scurrying past the small church built with beach stones and the white clapboard parsonage, they hurried by the general store long since closed for the day.

Jamie shivered in the evening air.

Are you cold, Jamie? she asked, putting her arm around his slender shoulders for warmth.

They stepped to the side as a carriage clattered by on the gravely street that ran through the middle of town. Soon they came to the dusty road leading to their house, perched on a slight rise overlooking a large field where sheep grazed.

The cottage was built from hand-hewn timbers cut from trees in the woods that surrounded their house and fields. The chimney was made from beach stones. Wavy glass windows shimmered in the evening light, reflecting the setting sun. The house was surrounded by a white picket fence that kept the farm animals from nibbling prized geraniums and hollyhocks. Inside the fence and off to the side was a kitchen garden, wafting the sweet smell of herbs through the open kitchen windows. In the front yard was an enormous maple tree, with a swing made of thick hemp rope hanging from a strong branch. The tree was Cassie’s delight, providing shade in the summer; sweet, delicious syrup in the spring; and leaves that turned flame red and orange in the fall. She spent many hours as high up as she could climb, dreaming dreams and reading her precious books.

Cassie ran toward the barn as she called over her shoulder to Jamie, Please go tell Mama I am back. I need to find Papa. Cassie often sought her father who, with his gentle strength and engaging smile, always calmed her mother, and she thought, Mama is going to be very cross with me. I may need Papa to intervene. Jamie ran toward the house as Cassie entered the barn. She called, Papa, Papa, where are you? But Aaron, her papa, was not there. He must be out in the fields tending the sheep, she mused.

The barn sheltering the animals was connected to the house with a breezeway. Attaching a barn to the house was common in Maine, making it easier to tend to the animals in the winter months, which were long and harsh. Cassie loved their barn that was painted cranberry red and had a gambled roof that kept the snow from piling upon it. Nor’easter storms could drop up to four feet of snow in a single storm and pile up even higher in the dead of winter. Small windows surrounded the barn, two on either side of the barn doors in front, four across the back, and two on the side; each had sixteen small panes of twinkling glass. Inside was a large open area with stalls for Chestnut the horse and Brunhilde the cow. There were also enclosures for the sheep and a chicken coop close to the breezeway, near the kitchen, handy for gathering eggs. A loft covered half of the open space with a ladder leading up to it and a railing across the front where Cassie and Jamie loved to play. A large double door at the far end of the loft was used for pitching, from a large wagon, hay that smelled sweet and fresh. The barn was a wonderful place any time of year. There were swallows nesting in the eves that flew in and out all day long. A large round oak woodstove sat in the corner with a soot-black stovepipe attached to a tall stone chimney.

The stove was a blessing on cold winter mornings when Cassie milked Brunhilde and Jamie gathered the eggs and fed the ducks before walking to the one-room school in the village. Farm tools hung neatly on the walls, and a plow with rigging, to hook up Chestnut, sat in one corner.

Double front doors, with filigreed brass hinges, opened wide enough to accommodate the buckboard and a carriage just big enough for the family of four.

A barn owl with huge eyes sat on a rafter high above and cocked its head to the side and looked right at Cassie as if to say, I am watching you.

To which Cassie responded, I know, I know. I need to face Mama, and she turned, ran out the door and toward the house.

Mary, her mother, was waiting on the veranda. She was a pretty woman, with a solemn face, and she did not smile much. She arose from the porch swing that was big enough to hold two people (or three, depending on their size) where she was sitting with Jamie, who had soothed her ruffled feathers.

Now as she approached Cassie, she scolded, Where have you been? Your father and I have been so worried. What are we to do with you? Are you still musing over your imaginings?

Yes, Mother. I went to my special place on the beach because I needed to clear my thoughts. I lost track of the time, but I feel better now.

With a look of consternation, Mary said, Come inside. I will warm your supper.

Cassie thought, Well, that was not as bad as I expected it would be, and she stepped inside the kitchen. She wasn’t really hungry but didn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings.

Sitting down at the large wooden hand-hewn table that her father had made, she picked through her fresh garden vegetables and sipped on a cup of fresh warm milk generously offered by Brunhilde.

Mary remained silent; her face creased with worry as she lit the oil lamp that surrounded them with soft, amber light and long shadows. Cassie was growing before her eyes, and she felt inadequate to deal with her daughter’s burgeoning independence and vivid imagination.

When Cassie was finished with her supper, not wishing to raise her mother’s anxiety, she did not speak of her vision as she washed the supper dishes. She could barely reach the long-handled pump on the sideboard of the metal kitchen sink. Standing on a stool, it took her many pumps before the ice-cold water flowed over into a black enamel basin filled with dishes. When the last of the dishes were dried and put away, it was time for sleep.

Aaron Wright had finished his supper earlier, and though he was worried about Cassie, the work still needed to be done, and he was out gathering the animals from the fields and finishing the day’s chores.

Cassie kissed her mother on the cheek.

Mary gathered both children in her arms and said, I love you both. Sweet dreams.

Cassie and Jamie, by the light of a lantern, climbed up to their sleeping loft and into their beds. Cassie pulled the quilt over her head, warding off the evening chill and prayed that tonight she would not dream.

---

¹ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fiddler’s_Green

Fiddler’s Green is a legendary imagined afterlife, where there is perpetual mirth, a fiddle that never stops playing, and dancers who never tire.

Chapter Two

Epidemic

There were chores to be done. A basket full of white and gray wool, sheared in the spring from sheep that grazed peacefully in the north pasture, sat on the floor by the spinning wheel in the corner of the kitchen. The spinning wheel was polished with oil from years of caressing the wool as it spun on the spindle. She loved the spinning. It reminded her of her grandmother.

Catherine had taught her how to spin and weave. They had spent hours together brushing the raw wool and separating it into thin strands. As Cassie sat at the wheel, Catherine would reach around her as much to caress her granddaughter as to guide her hands with the newly spun yarn on to the spindle.

Catherine also had the sight. Recognizing the gift in Cassie, she had named her knowing that life would be fraught with pain from the seeing. She also knew that Cassie would grow up to be a guide for others.

Cassie thought about her grandmother’s death, and her chest seared with sorrow. She had seen Catherine in a vision lying on a table in the parlor, dressed in her very finest dress made with lace and mother of pearl buttons imported from the south. She was surrounded with roses and daisies, rosemary and lavender. Her white hair, with the memory of red streaks, was bound and braided with ivy vines.

The night of the dream, she had cried herself to sleep. Mary had cradled and rocked her daughter in her arms as Cassie described the dreaded viewing in the parlor long before the happening.

Dismissing the dream as a nightmare, Mary had been unable or unwilling to contemplate the thought of life without her mother. She remembered the time that Catherine had sat with her night after sleepless night when she fell ill to diphtheria and how she had cared for her throughout her convalescence. Mary and Aaron had waited many years before being blessed with children, making them ever more precious. She relived the comfort of having Catherine attend their birth. Believing that death was near the night Cassie was born, she had felt that her mother willed the child out of her body and breathed life into her grandchild. She smiled remembering all the food they put up together each fall, lining the walls of the pantry with dilly beans, apple butter, and blueberry jam and the richness of each year’s harvest.

Mary had wrapped the quilt around Cassie that Catherine and she had worked on together, spending long winter nights sewing multicolored squares with tiny stitches. How could she manage without her mother’s wisdom and counsel? No, she had thought.