Title and Credits
Chapter One - Birds on Film
Chapter Two - Sunset Cove
Chapter Three - An Honest, Well-Intentioned Man
Chapter Four - Sherry's Story
Chapter Five - Shooting Nature
Chapter Six - Gentle Thunder
Chapter Seven - My Own Private Psychic Hotline
Chapter Eight - Little White Lies
Chapter Nine - Retake
Chapter Ten - Status Quo
Chapter Eleven - Mirror
Chapter Twelve - A Month of Sundays
Chapter Thirteen - Tears of My Heart
Chapter Fourteen - Jobsite
Chapter Fifteen - Solid as a Rock
Chapter Sixteen - The Salty Mistress
Chapter Seventeen- The Water's Edge
Chapter Eighteen - Reality Check
Chapter Nineteen - The Sherry Situation
Chapter Twenty - Steam
Chapter Twenty-One - Almost Normal
Chapter Twenty-Two - Into the Woods
Chapter Twenty-Three - The Man of Her Choosing
Chapter Twenty-Four - Top Ten Day
Chapter Twenty-Five - Joy Eternal
Chapter Twenty-Six - Typical
Chapter Twenty-Seven - A Man Between Two Worlds
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Native Spirit
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Sherry, Through the Lens
Chapter Thirty - Beautiful Wreck
Chapter Thirty-One - Clock Hands
Chapter Thirty-Two - Refuge
Chapter Thirty-Three - Captain of My Heart
Chapter Thirty-Four - Determined
Chapter Thirty-Five - The Beat
Chapter Thirty-Six - Deja Vu Stew
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Cloud Nine
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Loose Ends
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Coda
About the Author
Volossal
A Novel
A story of true love that transcends both space and time
by Robert Buchanan
Published by Volossal Publishing
www.volossal.com
Copyright © 2015, Robert Buchanan
Collaborator - Karen Sharon
Edited by Catherine Gigante-Brown
Cover Art by Robert Santora, Santora Design
Author photo by Bob Buchanan Photography
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction and although it may read as true, it is not.
The events described herein are for the reader’s entertainment, they having nothing to do with facts. As you read, you should know that absolutely no research went into keeping the past life events factual, as they are a figment of my overactive imagination.
First, I’d like to apologize in advance for the rawness of this book—I’m a photographer, not a writer. I took the copy from the journal I’d been writing since this thing began, as I tried to get my head around what was going on. While I’m still not sure exactly what happened, I thought my experiences might help someone else who was going through something similar. For what it’s worth, here goes...
- J.S.
I was talking to Rocky at the local deli when my cell phone rang. At the time, I had no idea what a stream of life-changing events this call would unleash upon me. Innocently, I flipped open my phone. “Good morning,” I answered cheerfully.
A sweet, familiar voice greeted me. “Morning, Jarred. It’s Sherry. I’m just confirming our lunch today.”
“How could I possibly forget? I’m looking forward to it,” I said with a smile which I think showed in my voice.
“Me too!” she responded. “Listen, would you mind picking me up outside of the office? I don’t want anyone knowing my business.” I agreed to her request. “See you at 12:30,” Sherry replied. I detected an odd tone in her voice, one I’d never heard before, but shrugged it off.
“No problem,” I responded. “See you then.”
“Looking forward to it, Jarred,” Sherry said, ending the call.
First, a bit of backstory. Sherry was the sculptor in an artistic group I belonged to—Brush, Chisel & Lens. I thought it was a pretty catchy name for our little collective which included an artist, sculptor and photographer. (I was the latter.) Sherry and I first met when she began working for one of my clients, and we’ve been friends as well as business associates ever since. Smart, talented and witty, I liked her from the very first time I met her.
The lunch Sherry called to confirm was planned at Sunset Cove, a restaurant not far from her office. Situated on the Hudson River, on a perfect spring day like that one, Sunset Cove was a perfect place for a creative brainstorming session. Not only was the view great but the tables were spaced wide apart. It was beautifully-appointed without being stuffy, plus the food is excellent.
After hanging up with Sherry, I couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy. There was something different about her this morning. Did I detect a slight nervousness in her voice? Or maybe it was me, a touch of spring fever that warm, sunny day was having on me. What I didn’t miss was Sherry’s desire to keep our meeting private. It wasn’t unusual for us to get together for lunch, coffee or work sessions, but why was this so different? I slipped my cell phone back in my pocket.
Standing at the counter in Rocky’s Deli, my attention shifted from my upcoming appointment with Sherry when I noticed a woman standing beside me, patiently waiting for her egg sandwich. An attractive lady with blonde hair and brown eyes, about five foot, five inches in height, she admired a photograph of a hot dog that hung on the wall.
“Wow! I love that picture,” she said to no one in particular. “It looks so good, I should have ordered one for breakfast.” Then she asked Rocky, “Where did you get it?”
Never one to pass up an opportunity to brag about my work, I chimed in, “From me...I created it.”
“Did you really do that?” she asked in a coy tone. Was I detecting a bit of flirtation in it?
“Sure did. That’s what I do for a living,” I told her. “My name’s Jarred.”
The pretty lady smiled at me. “I’m impressed. Nice work Jarred. It’s great to meet such a talented person.” And with that, she grabbed her sandwich and said good- bye as she walked away.
I turned to Rocky and everyone else in the deli with a big grin. “Well, guys, that’s a great way to start the day.” Honestly, it felt wonderful to have a total stranger appreciate my work, and such an attractive one at that.
A few minutes later I said my farewells, was out the door and en route to my studio. My mind drifted back to my conversation with Sherry about lunch. I did a quick mental run-through of the things we needed to discuss for our upcoming art show, what what the artists would be showing, and so on. I would be displaying images from my Old Toys project, but there would be all sorts of works represented there.
A stop at Rocky’s was a predictable part of my daily routine. After working out at the local gym, I usually stopped there, grabbed a cup of flavored coffee and some sort of healthy nosh then headed over to my photography studio. I guess I’m a pretty typical middle-aged guy in some respects. But pretty unusual in others.
A married, father of two, I feel better now at age 51 than I ever did. I recently lost more than 30 pounds thanks to the guidance of my friend and workout buddy, Mary Ellen, who’s one of the personal trainers at the gym. My daily workout helped me feel up to the challenge of whatever life threw at me and helped me sleep better too. I’d be the first to admit that I could be a bit of a bear without it.
My life was one of contrasts and variety. My father, a World War II veteran, navigated a B-17 bomber in England with the 34th Group. (Nicknamed The Flying Fortress, it was one serious aircraft.) Dad died when I was only 16 years old, leaving me pretty much on my own. It toughened me up at an early age. In order to survive, I psychologically constructed internal walls to keep myself safe. Looking back, I see that it was a protection mechanism—it was just something I did to get by. But today, I realize that it was something more.
At eight in the morning of my father’s death I woke up with a start, an uneasy feeling in my chest, aware that something had happened. When the phone rang moments later, my worst fears came true. My father was dead. Making funeral arrangements with my Uncle Roger, whom I barely knew at that point of my life, was like a bad dream for me, my worst nightmare. It was an arduous task for a boy of 16, especially just two days before Christmas.
I would always be thankful to my uncle for stepping in the way he did—I didn’t know if I could have done it without him. But even with his help, my father’s death transformed me into a serious, careful man who was always in control of his thoughts, never allowing himself to drop his guard, nor letting anyone get beyond those walls he built around himself. Just the fact that I talk about myself in the third person gives you an idea of how tall and thick those walls are.
As I continued on in high school after my father’s death, teachers often told me that my life would never amount to more than working the business end of a shovel. Right then and there, I made a vow to myself to prove them wrong. Today, I realized that they did me a favor by showing me I was tougher then I realized.
In a way, art saved me. Art has always been a big part of my life in one way or another, whether it be writing, drawing with pen and ink or photography. In my teens, after my father’s death, when I wasn’t working to survive (which was most of the time), I would sit, quietly writing down my observations on life as I saw it. I could do this for hours on end, alone in my bedroom, headphones on, listening to The Doors, or one of the popular rock groups of the 60s. I couldn’t tell you whether I wrote for fun or therapy, or both. I guess I just wrote to survive.
My life experience, even at a young age, had always been wide-ranging. My interests were so vast and eclectic that I never knew what to do first. Even the music I liked to listen to was diverse—it went from The Beatles one minute then back to Montovani the next and onto The Rolling Stones.
While some people might say I was psychic or had “the shining,” as far back as I can remember, I experienced the unexplainable—knowing something was going to happen before it did. I didn’t understand much of it. Truthfully, it even scared me a little bit. I never trusted these events or told anyone about them, at least in the beginning. I wanted solid proof, a validation that I never seem to get. So I ignored these episodes...until I couldn’t ignore them anymore.
Here’s The Reader’s Digest version of my life: After high school, a failed attempt at college and floundering around in various careers, I finally realized my lifelong dream of becoming a police officer. I spent 10 years in this career, enjoying my work in law enforcement immensely. The nature of the job—and working on shifts— gave me lots of time to spend on writing or drawing. I even dabbled in photography with a cheap 110 millimeter pocket camera. I wasn’t able to afford a good 35 millimeter camera until years later.
Then one day at work, my whole world shifted. I was talking about photography with Frank, a fellow officer, who told me about a pretty decent camera—a Mamyia Secor—that was on sale in a Manhattan shop for only $78. It was a steal for such a great piece of machinery. First chance I got, I bought it. Then I needed to figure out how to take pictures, so, Frank and I signed up to attend a Nikon seminar with some of the other guys. “And the rest,” as the saying goes, “is history.”
From that moment on, nothing ever felt so right to me as being behind the camera. I started my photography business while I was still a police officer. In the tenth year of being on the job, I became so disenchanted with the politics that I decided to retire. Photography was growing into a successful commercial business for me with some art thrown in to keep things interesting. Besides keeping me “right,” taking pictures helped me stay in touch with my inner self, and gave me the opportunity to leave the force. Fast- forward to many years later, I have now have built quite a following of photographic art collectors. Not bad for a kid they said would never amount to anything.
One Sunday afternoon, at a time when my creative juices were slowing down, I found myself gazing out my living room window, just watching birds come to my feeder. I laughed to myself thinking, ‘Look at all of these freeloaders, coming to me for a handout.’ But I kept watching, captivated by their comings and goings. I must have been there for 40 minutes or so when I realized that I was the one getting a great show, and all for the few dollars the birdseed cost—the best deal in town.
A wide variety of birds landed on the feeder. Some shared; some were selfish. (It was pretty much like life, like people, I realized.) The chipmunks, along with the squirrels and juncos (small but brave birds) showed up on the ground below, searching for scraps the pushy blue jays had dropped. They would dance, chase each other and even wrestle. A few squirrels even searched for ways to get to that supply in the sky. Occasionally one would figure it out, hanging upside-down on a tree limb or balancing delicately on the feeder.
All of the different types of birds attracted to the feeder brought an artist’s palette of colors—the electric blue of the jays, the vibrant red of the cardinals, the oriole’s bright yellow breast. The priceless entertainment they provided gave me an idea for my business. The Art of Birds. Hmmm, this was something I could develop into a creative endeavor. I could offer the simple pleasure I enjoyed in my yard to others as art. My creative self was beginning to reawaken and for the first time in a long time, I felt promise. I felt the promise of what could be.
Hell, why not? I figured. As a kid, wildlife was everything in my life. I fished, hunted and trapped to help put food on the table during those hard times after my father died. Now, it was time to return to my roots, to my childhood interest in nature. But could I learn to enjoy the simple things again?
I grabbed my camera and began to take photographs, capturing the birds on film. With each push of the shutter, I felt myself coming alive.
Shortly after I arrived at my photography studio on that fateful, glorious morning, I checked my appointment book. Sipping my flavored coffee (dark no sugar), I smiled. It was a light day, schedule-wise. I had a few things on my “To Do” list, plus lunch with Sherry, and that was it. I finished up some paperwork and before I knew it, noon rolled around, and I was soon on my way to pick her up.
As I approached her building, I noticed Sherry pacing in front of it, impatiently waiting for me to arrive—and I wasn’t even late. When I pulled up, she quickly climbed in, smiled at me broadly and greeted me in a warm, inviting tone. “Good afternoon, Jarred,” she said. “I’ve really been looking forward to this.”
I couldn’t help but agree. “I like Sunset Cove. It has a creative atmosphere— perfect for our meeting.” Looking back, I apparently missed what Sherry was hinting at, as well as what her tone implied.
My mind was focused on the variety of subjects I thought we’d be addressing at lunch, not anything else. Although Sherry and I had become friends over the years, she’d always been somewhat distant. She never said much about her private life, always keeping it strictly business—either art or assignments for the agency. Even when Sherry, Bill (her significant other), Carol (my wife) and I occasionally got together for dinner, the conversation was always cordial and pleasant, but never too deep or personal. Bill, a contractor who I also liked, eventually became a client.
Even though it was a bit chilly, Sherry and I decided to take a table outside at Sunset Cove, overlooking the Hudson River. The sky was a deep blue with a few puffy clouds chased across it by the wind. We sat facing each other, with the Hudson over our shoulders. Looking down at my menu, I glanced up for a second to see Sherry smiling at me over her menu. There was definitely something different about her today but I didn’t pay much attention to it at first. I smiled back at her nervously and returned to reading the menu but I still felt her eyes upon me.
After another moment, I looked up again. The chill in the air suddenly shifted to a warm, steady breeze that came gently out of nowhere off the river. It was almost as if the breeze reached deep inside me, bringing comfort to my soul. The fresh scent from the Hudson took me back to my younger days when I fished and canoed there. However, I was also aware that this experience ran much deeper than a simple memory. At the time, I didn’t realize what was happening, but in retrospect, it’s as clear as glass.
Sherry and I arrived at lunch as friends, never guessing that there was so much more in store for us. Perhaps if we had known, we would have avoided each other altogether. Then again, maybe not. I wonder if it was simple destiny or some force beyond our control. But one thing was clear—something was stirring in me and I was pretty sure it was stirring in her as well, just by the way she looked at me. But I tried to shrug it off, thinking maybe it was nothing, just a pleasant breeze lulling me into unknown territory, nothing more.
Or was it some unspoken need coming from within me, a need to know if Sherry felt the same way, a need to understand what both of us felt, for that matter. Friends, yes, but Sherry and I were also strangers, with no real knowledge of each other. Yet, how could I also have this unspoken feeling that she and I had intimate knowledge of each other beyond our friendship? I pushed the thought from my mind or at least made the attempt to do so.
Sherry at I sat there trying to decide what to eat. The conversation was light and somewhat self-indulgent. When our eyes once again met over our menus, I felt strangely drawn to her. Was it the manifestation of that new, warm, eternal breeze coming off the Hudson, completely embracing me, or was it something more? Was Sherry feeling the same thing? No. This had to be my overactive imagination, I convinced myself.
But still, something about the day was different. I found myself oddly attracted to Sherry, unexplainably, magnetically pulled towards her. Momentarily, a vision gripped me—of Sherry and I locked in a passionate embrace. It was like a walk-around dream of a romance in the making.
I quickly shook off the vision and convinced myself that it was nothing more than pure middle-aged foolishness. The truth was I was a little embarrassed about having these unthinkable thoughts about my friend, my poor, innocent unsuspecting friend! Sherry doesn’t deserve this, I told myself. She’s here as a friend, a business associate. She already has a lover. I was also concerned about betraying Sherry’s trust with thoughts like this. Once again, I stopped myself, chasing these embarrassing musings from my mind. But I couldn’t help but wonder if they showed on my face.
Sherry and I sat, quietly enjoying our meal, as well as each other, our time together passing quickly. For once, our conversation became more private, more exploratory. Then we stumbled onto the safer ground of Brush, Chisel & Lens. She was beginning to open up to me, letting me in. Our pleasant lunch ended all too soon.
Outside Sunset Cove, Sherry and I walked slowly back to my car. As I opened the door for her, she told me that she decided to walk back to work. “Is everything okay? I hope I didn’t say something to offend you,” I asked with concern.
“No, everything’s fine,” Sherry assured me. “I just want to walk off my delicious lunch. It’s such a nice day and the exercise will do me good.” I tried to convince her to accept a lift but she politely refused. After quick good-byes, Sherry disappeared down the street alone and I headed back to my studio to work on a few new ideas.
During my solitary drive, I thought about my time with Sherry and realized that much more than a meal had happened. A warm feeling overcame me—that awkward yet wonderful sensation that had engulfed me earlier. Suddenly my current project, which had been so important to me, no longer mattered. I became confused, embarrassed and upset. I felt that I’d committed the worst of all violations—I had betrayed a trust, a friendship. I tried to convince myself that it didn’t matter because it was all going on secretly in my head. Sherry would never know. Once again, I shook it off.
Back at the studio, I sat contemplating what to do with my new project. What level should I take it to? Should it make a statement? No, I decided that I’d just have some fun with it. I hated making statements anyway. That always made me think of Frank Capra’s old credo, “If you want to send a message, call Western Union.” I’d let the collectors figure out what statement, if any, had been made. I always got a kick out of that anyway—collectors come up with much grander, loftier causes and expressions of my art than I possibly could. Nobody ever accused me of being a deep thinker! And, besides, artist statements all seemed to be the same—anti-this, anti-that, angry with...whatever. I just wasn’t an angry person. I tried to take my viewers somewhere pleasurable, to a place where they could smile and not be angry.
As I stared at my project notes, I felt lost, something I haven’t felt for a long time. I wondered where I might go with this project. I asked myself what purpose it served, or for that matter, what purpose I served. I felt confused as I paced back and forth in the studio, distressed. All kinds of crazy questions went bouncing through my head, like...What’s going on? Why am I so lost? What’s in my head?
I felt the intense need to escape, to get away from my thoughts, so I jumped back into my car, this time heading out to the ocean. I found its constant movements soothing, calming. The second I arrived at the shore, I instantly felt a release, even before I got out of the car. After a brief walk to the sand, I found myself sitting on a bunch of rocks by the water’s edge. The waves began beating their mystifying magic into my soul, kissing the shore with a thundering, threatening roar. The rushing of the waves always simultaneously excited me and helped clear my mind. I purposely concentrated on the ocean, not allowing my thoughts to drift back to my studio or the lunch.
When the sun started to set, I was consumed by the colors as well as the salty breeze and the movement of the waves. A feeling of warmth surrounded me. I realized that this was a place I didn’t come to enough, one that eluded me far too often.
I sat there silently, listening to the wonderful music emanating from the shore: the percussions of the waves, the strings of the shore birds and the horn of the occasional ship passing by. I observed the palette of colors created as the sun went down, looking on with such envy at its beauty. I watched the clouds blended with the sun to make a momentary painting that changed, second by second, never replicated, nor possessed by anyone, no matter how wealthy.
I chuckled to myself as these thoughts passed through my mind. If only I had the capability to create so seamlessly, as flawlessly. I laid back against the sharp rocks and took in this momentary, magnificent light show. Sadly, it faded all too rapidly into darkness. I watched the full moon slowly rise, its beams reflecting upon the water. The waves raced toward me, pounding, as they beat the hard sand at my feet. The night blanketed me, leaving only my thoughts and the symphony of nature.
I relaxed completely, not thinking of anything in particular, emptying my mind. Or so it seemed. Something strange began to happen to me, something I did not yet realize at the time. A warm, kindling light began to flicker within me, a light which I was not yet aware of then but am so familiar with now.
While watching the stars come out as moonlight danced upon the waters, I remembered the times during my boyhood when my father and I would go out and study a similar night sky. Dad would show me the stars and the constellations, having me repeat them after him so I’d remember them better. We would sit there for hours, studying the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, the North Star and the like. Those happy times, although long past, were fresh in my memory that night.
As I laid there, searching for familiar constellations, I felt myself slipping into a trance, a semiconscious state. A vision flashed through my head. It was a momentary, quick and confusing, but it seemed to transport me back to a place I’d been to before, a place I couldn’t quite remember. A far off place, perhaps a place from long ago.
Then, in an instant, I was back on my throne of rocks, rehashing the lunch conversation I’d with Sherry hours earlier. It became clear to me that something similar had happened then too. I was momentarily transported to another time. My thoughts were of Sherry. My smile was for her. Sherry had begun to show me a side of herself that she always withheld from me, perhaps from everyone. I realized then that this secret side of Sherry has always been there, yet, I seemed to have missed it. I began to get a strange feeling—as though I’d known Sherry long before our first meeting at my client’s office when I was introduced to her as Valerie’s new assistant.
I became aware of the fact that I liked Sherry more than I cared to admit, much more in fact. My thoughts turned to hopes of intimacy. I decided to go along with what I perceived to be a moment of weakness. I allowed my mind to indulge itself. And it felt good. Why not let yourself go? I told myself. In the past, I never permitted myself the foolishness of such thoughts. I built a wall around myself that, until now, had kept me protected, detached, and a safe distance from all who could potentially hurt me.
The more I thought about the meal, the more I wondered if my thoughts were foolishness or something more substantial. Perhaps Sherry even had mutual feelings for me. After all, how could you explain all of those weighty glances, those special smiles, her finally opening up to me? No, it couldn’t be. These things only happen in movies or in books, never in real life, and certainly not to guys like me with girls like Sherry.
But perhaps, just perhaps? No. I had to find out. But, how? I thought that maybe there’d be a sign, a clear message. In spite of myself, a smile came to my lips. I shook it off and climbed back into the cushion of the night sky, as the sound of breaking waves lifted me farther and farther away. I drifted off to who knows where, who cares where. I just let it take me.
I remained at rest with my eyes closed, unknowingly in waiting, the waves pulling at me. I allowed myself the freedom of drifting back into the near-hypnotic state I’d experienced only moments before. I fell deeper and deeper into my meditating self. Although it felt as if I were asleep, I was still acutely aware of events as they unfolded before me, almost as if a movie were playing. I drifted further into of the folds of memory into a life I lived before. Was it some form of time travel? I wasn’t sure. Although I was confused, I managed to free myself, let go of my consciousness and move into a strange realm of semiconscious travel...
Suddenly a light appears, as if emerging from a fog. I walk toward it, wondering where this could possibly lead. Out of nowhere, a bridge of stone appears. Apprehensively, I move slowly across it, through the fog and toward the light. Upon reaching the other side of the bridge, I find myself in another time, another place that existed years before...
Events from a long-past period in history begin to present themselves to me. It is as if I am in a film. Simultaneously watching a movie and yet starring in it. Although still baffled, I feel no fear of what is unfolding, quite the opposite. I look forward to seeing each new thing that is being revealed to me. It’s like turning the pages of a captivating book. Except I am the book.
I see...I see a young man who strongly resembles me. Could this actually be me that I’m watching? What period of time is this? Where am I? I try to push these questions into the back of my mind and simply observe.
I watch this young man working hard on the dock of a shipping town somewhere in New England. The time period looks to be in the early 1800s. The man is loading a ship, which is named “The Four Merry Maids,” making repairs and doing whatever his Captain asks with efficiency and skill. Soon thereafter, the ship sets sail. I overhear the crew speak of heading for England.
As darkness begins to overtake the sun, I notice that a beautiful, exotic young woman has come up on the deck. I am startled to see that she bears a striking resemblance to Sherry. It isn’t difficult to see that this young sailor has taken a fancy to her. She effortlessly holds his attention as she wanders somewhat aimlessly along the ship’s damp boards. Their eyes meet from time to time and she passes him a knowing smile, then approaches him cautiously.
“Good evening, Jeremiah. Beautiful night isn’t it?” she says, still smiling. “My father picked a lovely day to set sail.”
“It is, isn’t it, Jessica?” Jeremiah responds to the Captain’s beautiful daughter. He seems a bit bashful but continues speaking. “A good Captain knows these things,” he tells her, looking down at the deck with a grin so wide and deep, it lights up the ship.
Jeremiah stands at the rail, gazing out upon the water. Jessica moves close to him, close enough to let him know she is there without arousing suspicion or appearing seductive. They chat amicably as they both lean upon the railing, looking out over the rolling waves. There is an aura, electricity between them. It’s clear that they both feel it and this gives them the quiet confidence that only two kindred spirits can feel.
“I’ve been watching you work, Jeremiah,” Jessica tells him quietly. “You work diligently to make sure that everything is just so to ensure a safe passage.” Jeremiah says nothing and is plainly embarrassed by the compliment. “Father is abundantly pleased with you and how hard you work,” Jessica tells him, embarrassing him further. But this time, he manages to speak.
“Thank you, Jessica. That pleases me,” he admits. Jeremiah turns and looks at her, gazing deeply into her eyes and stammers softly, “Your hair looks so wonderful blowing gently in the wind...and it always smells so clean, like lavender.”
Jeremiah smiles but reddens as he tells her this. Jessica takes his hand in hers and gives him a gentle peck on the cheek. His blush deepens as he glows with delight, feeling a rush of wonder shudder through him. God, how good Jessica makes me feel! he thinks. At that moment, Jeremiah is certain he could dance across the top of the water all the way to England. He looks at her with a love that penetrates her very soul, so intense that Jessica feels a warm rush flow through her. Life is good, they both think. Life is very good.
The ship gently rolls upon the ocean’s surface, slowly heading toward its destination. Jeremiah and Jessica talk tirelessly for hours—laughing, debating, heartily exchanging their thoughts as they slowly and cautiously move closer and closer together. The warm breeze softly embraces them, as the moonlight glitters upon the surface of the sea, turning up the flames ignited within them.
Suddenly, a dark, burly figure appears on deck. The moment Jessica sees it, she moves away from Jeremiah with nervous quickness. “Jessica, how many times must you be told not to fraternize with the sailors?” the man’s voice roughly barks.
“But, Father, Jeremiah and I have been friends forever,” she pleads. “He isn’t just some sailor! We were simply talking about the night, the trip, about our plans upon arriving in England.” But her attempt at an explanation are lost on the gruff man.
The brawny Captain is clearly upset with her and will hear none of her excuses. He orders her back to her cabin for the remainder of the evening. Jessica bursts into angry tears and storms off. The Captain now approaches Jeremiah, menacingly. “You are not to associate with my daughter. Do you understand, Jeremiah? Under no circumstances are you to interact with my daughter again,” the Captain orders.
“Yes, Sir,” Jeremiah says in a small voice, sadly knowing that he must obey his Captain. After the man saunters off, Jeremiah turns back to the ocean and drifts away into to his lonely world.
Jeremiah’s heart is heavy with pain. He knows now more than ever that he’ll never be allowed to court the woman of his dreams, his friend of many years. Jeremiah is utterly aware that, as a lowly sailor, he will never be of the stature to ask the Captain for his daughter’s hand in marriage. He swears to himself that he will never again allow a woman to capture his heart—the ache of forbidden love is too much to bear.
Back in her cabin, Jessica is furious with her father and his nonsensical rules of social standing. When she becomes angry, she is a force to be reckoned with. Jessica knows how she feels about Jeremiah and she is not about to let some old salt tell her what she can and can’t do with her life, even if the old salt happens to be her father. She is also irate at Jeremiah for not standing up to her father. Jessica knows the consequences of disobeying a Captain’s orders while at sea...but isn’t she worth hanging for? Moments later, Jessica laughs at her own foolishness, certain she would not want Jeremiah hanged for disobeying orders, for loving her. After all, what would she do without him?
But how could her father do this to her? She and Jeremiah have grown up together. Jeremiah protected her from the other children who, long ago, taunted her for being a first mate’s daughter. That same first mate who became a Captain, as would Jeremiah. He has always been her protector, and now he is her lover, always and forever. A warm smile washes over her lips and the light of love warms her heart.
Yes, Jessica has known Jeremiah all of her life. She knows, as does her father, that Jeremiah is an honorable, well-intentioned man. Couldn’t her father see what a fine son-in-law this handsome sailor would make? Does her father not care? Jessica has decided she will see to it that her father’s eyes are opened or she will die trying.
With this, Jessica slowly removes a chain which she wears concealed beneath her dress, safely stashed between her breasts. It is a keepsake that she hides from her father. At the end of the chain is a locket in the shape of a heart. Jeremiah gave it to her just before they sailed. Within the locket is a likeness of the two of them. Upon opening the locket, Jeremiah is on one side, and she is on the other. When he slipped her this beautiful gift, Jeremiah told Jessica that the locket would always keep him close to her heart, even when they could not be together. Jessica holds the locket tightly against her chest. She feels warmth emanating from it to her heart. This gives her some comfort, a sense that he is close to her, that he is a part of her.
During the remainder of the journey, Jessica enjoys few stolen moments with Jeremiah. She knows he will not forsake his Captain, but she is determined to keep the fire of their love fanned just the same, always making her sweetheart aware that she is but a breath away. Determined as she is, Jessica lets Jeremiah know that it is their destiny to be together always, no matter what her father thinks.
As Jeremiah works, Jessica slowly walks by, intentionally catching the breeze just so, in such a way to carry her soft, light, floral fragrance to his senses, quickly letting his heart know she is there. But unbeknownst to her, this only causes Jeremiah sorrow and pain, knowing that the object of his deepest desires can never be his. Although he also knows how determined Jessica can be, he never realizes just how determined she is to change the way things stand. I will find a way to open my father’s eyes, she giggles to herself. Just wait and see. This will be my life’s work.
After months at sea, “The Four Merry Maids” finally dock in Southampton, England. The sailors are permitted two weeks leave and during this time, it is Jessica’s duty to shop with her mother, searching the markets for fine fabrics, teas and fragrances to fill the ship’s hold on the return trip. They plan to spend the entire fortnight shopping for all of the wonderful things the new world cannot offer.
One evening, the Captain entertains his distinguished clients and dignitaries at a fabulous dinner in their Southampton home. Their house is lavishly furnished and a warm fire awaits all who enter each room. Rich cloth lines the walls and thick drapery covers the windows. Even those of more means envy their furnishings, which hail from all corners of the world, thoughtfully gathered on the Captain’s many journeys. The home resonates with the wonderful fragrance of lavender and sandalwood. To the credit of the Captain’s wife, Portia, entering their home is an impressive experience, for it is clear that she takes great care to make it an inviting place which offers comfort to all.
Not only does Jessica’s mother proudly display her fine treasures but she also has a generous heart and is quick to share her good fortune. She readily gives the wives of these respectable men, clients of her husband, lovely gifts to show her appreciation for their patronage. The Captain himself, a courageous and tough man, offers superb cigars and brandy to his guests. As a sea captain, he commands a heavy price in exchange for the safe transport of the prized imports and exports shipped by his guests’ companies.
Jessica is sought after by these men’s wives, who desire such a pretty prize for their sons. A bright, headstrong young lady, Jessica will have none of this silly matchmaking. Her attempts to be pleasant are always pale and forced at best, for her heart and soul are just blocks away at the sailors’ pub, with Jeremiah. The more these foolish marriage offers come, the more sickened her heart becomes. This dismay easily turns to rage, a rage toward her father.
Jessica’s mother studies her with worry at one point in the evening. She easily reads the pain on her daughter’s face, seeing through the mask her daughter dons for polite society. Yes, she knows her daughter well. Portia thinks that perhaps, just this once, in the name of love and matters of the heart, she will defy her husband’s demands. Can he not see how Jessica and her sailor feel toward one another? Can he not put this foolish class consciousness behind him? Why is he so unyielding? Portia wonders.
A hard man, the Captain is incapable of seeing or feeling the pain he causes in his beautiful daughter. Oh, such sorrow! After all, women are the experts in such matters, she thinks. Although her Captain is capable of guiding his ship through treacherous seas, he knows little of life’s most treacherous tidal wave —love.
Portia takes a deep breath and decides to take the helm and guide her daughter’s love ship through the stormy waves kicked up by her husband’s blindness to matters of the heart. She deduces that the more these two lovers are kept apart, the more they will desire each other. Perhaps this is nothing more than a longing for the forbidden fruit. Perhaps, if Portia brings them together with her blessings, this romance will fade away and no longer cause such disruption within her family. This is how she will justify to her husband what she is about to do, should he find out.
Once off ship, Jeremiah quickly heads toward The Smuggler’s Cove, the public house where the sailors stay while docked in Southampton. As he enters this slightly- seedy establishment, he can smell the stale ale, the smoke of cheap cigars and pipe tobacco. The sawdust on the floor is changed once a week, more often than in the cheaper inns which are swept only once a month. The tavern is empty, but that will change in a few hours.
First, Jeremiah settles into the decent sleeping quarters offered here—decent in comparison to those on the ship and more spacious. The Cove, as it is commonly known, always has a plentiful supply of good quality libations to wash down the simple fare. And there is also female companionship for those with such desires. These men have been months at sea, on a ship devoid of women, save for Jessica, who is clearly off limits. The sailors always set aside some of their wages for a bit of slap and tickle.
What good is it to risk our lives during the treacherous Atlantic passage and not have any enjoyment before the always-hazardous trip back across the pond? they reason. What good would all that hard earned cash do us in the Davy Jones’ locker if the trip takes a bad turn? They are hearty, healthy men who work hard and play hard—and shore leave is their time to play.
As Jeremiah sits conversing with his shipmates, he finds little interest in the Cove’s women and even less in the food. His heart is heavy and his thoughts are only of his fair maiden Jessica. Who is he to love such a privileged princess? One who travels to such exotic lands, purchasing the finest of goods, silks from China and spices from India? He tries to convince himself that it is for these reasons that Jessica cannot possibly be interested in him.
Jeremiah is a hard working man, it is true, but he is not fine or exotic or exciting. It is true also that he has ambitions of some day becoming the captain of his own ship, but this accomplishment is very far off. Had his life not taken a dramatic turn when he was a lad, everything would have been different. But things are not different, he tells himself harshly, and now it is time for you to understand this and accept it. But like his beloved Jessica, Jeremiah isn’t one to accept things as they are. Instead, he is one to take charge of his life and change things. One day, he is certain that he will show the Captain that he is worthy of his lovely daughter.
Jeremiah continues falling deeper into despair, wallowing in his ale as the laughter of the men washes over him. The more he thinks about his unattainable love, the more pitiful he appears. As the effects of the ale begin to become obvious, one of the Cove’s working girls senses an easy mark. Katrina is a truly wicked girl. Her soul is soblack that she is reputed to have once cut out her lover’s heart for betraying her. All the men know better than to take up with her and go out of their way to avoid her.
Katrina strolls confidently and seductively to Jeremiah’s side. As she sidles up beside him, uninvited, her intentions far from honorable. Her grimy blouse is just a bit too low, her skirts, just a bit too tight around the belly and even shows a glimpse of ankle, something unheard of in that time. It is also said that Katrina hates men, especially sailors. What barbaric fools they are, she has been known to sneer.
Another of Kat’s favorite credos is that drunken sailors can easily be parted from their money. She takes great pleasure in doing just that. In fact, Katrina is something of an artist in this arena. At the right time of night, she accompanies her unknowing victim to his room and lays him on his bed to wait as she “gets ready.” These poor drunken louts soon fall into an inebriated slumber, during which Katrina helps herself to whatever happens to be in their pockets. They don’t realize that they’ve been parted from their money until the next morning, if that. Still foggy from the night’s whiskey, some don’t even remember Katrina’s empty promises. Her wallet has grown fat by simply escorting men to their rooms. Such fools these men are, she thinks to herself as she stacks gold and silver coin into neat piles.
Not to be deterred, Katrina fends off Jeremiah’s repeated rejection and continues the flirtatious banter. So determined is Katrina is to remove Jeremiah’s money from his pockets that she moves closer to him, allowing her blouse to slip off her shoulder, permitting her knee to brush his. Jeremiah moves away slightly, continuing to dodge her advances. He tells Katrina in no uncertain terms that he has no interest in her, that his loyalty is to his lifelong love, the one he grew up with, the one he cannot stop thinking of.
Katrina flies into a rage. “You have wasted my night, you cretin!” she screams and demands that Jeremiah compensate her for her time.
“I have not asked you to keep me company, so any time spent here was time on your own clock,” he tells her. “And now it is time for me to bid you a good-night.”
When Jeremiah rises to retire, Katrina blocks his way, confronting him once more. He ignores her demands and heads toward the stairs. Enraged at the rejection, Katrina reaches under her skimpy dress and pulls a knife from her garter. With one swift movement, Katrina thrusts the rusty blade deep into Jeremiah’s chest. Before she can stab him again, Jeremiah’s shipmates grab her and wrestle her to the floor. Jeremiah stumbles to the stairs where he falls bleeding, deeply and mortally wounded.
As the others valiantly try to staunch the bleeding, one of Jeremiah’s shipmates runs to the house of the Captain to inform him of this horrible incident, hoping that the Captain’s influences will get swift and sure help for Jeremiah in the form of a trusted physician.
Just prior to the urgent knock upon their door, Jessica mysteriously falls ill. There is a sick feeling deep in her heart, impossible to describe, but present nonetheless. She grabs onto a mahogany chest to steady herself. Jessica does not know what is wrong—how could she? Nevertheless, somehow—instinctively—she knows. Something has happened to Jeremiah.
As she listens to the sailor telling her father of the incident at the Cove, Jessica dashes hysterically from the house before anyone can restrain her. She runs through the damp, dark cobblestone streets. Her body pierces through the fog that has just rolled in. Her soft, white skin becomes coated with a mist of rain. But Jessica does not care, nor does she notice.
As Jessica enters the door of the Smuggler’s Cove, the first thing she sees is Jeremiah lying on the floor, bloody and dying. She falls to the ground and grabs him, pulling him to her bosom. Sobbing, Jessica begs Jeremiah to hold on, not to die. She looks longingly into Jeremiah’s eyes. She sees that he is crying—not for fear, not for himself, but for her, for them. For their loss. Their lips meet for one last kiss, and then he is gone.
Later that evening, Portia sits in Jessica’s room. Her attempts to console her daughter are useless. Jessica ignores her, sitting in front of a mirror in a corner of her room. Transfixed, she stares at her reflection, yet sees nothing. Jessica’s thoughts are of him, and only of him. She tries to be strong but finds only weakness. Jessica places her hand on the locket that hangs around her neck, Jeremiah’s locket. She presses it close to her heart, watching the woman in the mirror, then lets out an unearthly wail that could wake the dead. She glances in the mirror at her solemn image and cries.
I woke with a start on the beach, breathless, a pain deep within my own chest and utterly confused. What had I just witnessed? I felt cold and sad and empty. I sat for a few moments, feeling the remnants of what seemed very much like a past life experience. It was so vivid, so real. I didn’t know what else to call it.
I had heard about such occurrences but never believed them...until now. In my vision, I could actually feel the passing of Jeremiah’s soul. I don’t know how this was possible, I just did. I was now certain that the sailor I watched die was myself. I was stunned, confused, shaken and did not completely grasp what had just happened.
Yet if I thought about it, throughout my life, I’ve always had this underlying sense of a life prior to the one I was currently living. I always seemed to be searching, to be almost driven, throughout my life to find something mystical. But I was never sure of exactly what I was looking for. Somehow, there was always the knowledge, the confidence that the past would somehow find me. And now, it looked like it did.
I walked slowly back to my car for the ride home which seemed endless. The roads were packed with people who had probably just completed long, monotonous days at a job they kept for no other reason than a paycheck. I felt lucky not to be one of them.
As my mind swirled, I tried to put these events together. Bewildered, I racked my brain to try and figure out the meaning of the powerful trip I’d just taken. Was this a sign or some sort of dream? Was I losing my mind? I had a strange feeling that this vision was something I’d lived before. I made a mental note to look into it, then chuckled to myself. Notes of any kind wouldn’t be necessary for an event I would never forget.