Cat Dubois' Odyssey to Enchantment Page 28

  “Shh, follow me;”, he whispered, “there’s something I want to show you. Come on.” Thomas wore plaid flannel pajamas with a corduroy robe and tan slippers. He carried a burning candle in one hand. “Hurry up. You’re so slow. You move like a tortoise.”

  The “Little Elizabeth” she had become was a blonde, green-eyed girl of 3 or 4, following her brother, Thomas, down the citadel’s hall. The structure she found herself in was an enormous castle. She had been there at some point of time; and, what was really fascinating was that it was a larger version of her own home—the Dubois Manor.

  She wore a long, cotton nightgown with dainty pink flowers. She had wrapped the top covers from the bed around her shoulders for warmth. Her feet were barefoot on the stone castle floor. She felt she was accustomed to running across them in the summers. Like an old fortress, this noble castle’s walls held old relics and pictures of various family patriarchs. Little Elizabeth passed the hanging paintings and artifacts, unafraid of them. She did not mind their presence, they were her relatives.

  Thomas was further up ahead. “Hurry Elizabeth, you're always so slow!” Elizabeth rounded the corner, with her blanket now in her hand, only to see that Thomas had disappeared. She stopped at the third door on the left, as always. She knew where he was. The door opened, “Creak…”

  Awaiting her, Thomas stood inside. A music box was playing softly in the corner. “Let’s look at the paintings and old stuff. Here, sit next to me.”

  The thunder and lightning around the manor seemed to heighten. “Here, I have a locket with our photographs. It preserved our memory; that's all that's left of us,” Thomas smiled, gleamingly. “There, you have it now. So, keep it close and remember me.”

  “Okay,” said Little Elizabeth. She held Thomas’ picture close to her heart. “I'll never lose it. I swear! I love it, Thomas. Thank you.”

  “Wake up, Elizabeth, wake up! Before it's too late,” Thomas shook her arms and warned her to awaken. He cried. Then, he disappeared into the wall and the music box stopped playing.

  “Kaboom! Crack!” Powerful streaks of lightning lit the sky. A branch fell from an old oak tree, crashing through the manor rooftop. It was 2:27 in the morning, Greenwich time. Cat knew that soon at :0300 it would be the witching hour. Her father talked about 3:00 a.m. being the witches’ hour. The superstitions stayed with Cat, creating a tremendous fear of opening the door to any more dreams. However, Cat could not forgot the boy’s warnings. But she knew she should not be awake, or let her father catch her up at 3:00 a.m. The lightning’s light flashed across the boys face, for the briefest second, before he left, again. The image was spine-chilling.

  “But, I’m not awake, am I? I don’t know what’s going on. What is real and what isn’t?”, Cat told herself, knowing she was quite disturbed, fighting the dreams, their symbols, and the image in her mind’s eye of the eerie castle with the little boy. “What did he call me? Elizabeth or Beth?”, she curiously wondered. Meanwhile, the shadows from the leaves and branches of the trees outside her window appeared to make vivid pictures on her bedroom walls. The shapes on the high walls were bizarre, and wildly depicted visions of the past. She was used to that by now, and seldom became bothered by the shadowy show. But these shadows were markedly different; they told stories about ghosts and demons fighting a war, a battle trying to tell her something. Cat refused to look at them displaying their tales on her bedroom walls. As the lightning flashed erratically, the shadows showed one image hitting another, like one view taking a sword to the other. Even the noises that accompanied the bolts of lightning, the fierce wind outside, sounded like battle cries; but again, Cat refused to listen. She hid her face in the pillow. The images and sounds desperately tried to gain her attention. She simply refused to participate, and fell deeply asleep, again.

  Eventually, the images faded and the noises of the war too. “It’s wasn’t real; it’s not real,” she brought herself to reason. She was so tired; and they were gone. As if it mattered, she thought, wearily, upon awakening from the wild and tormenting night of fragmented dreams. Cat stirred in her bed, drifting in and out of consciousness and sleep. There were mourning doves on the window sill seeking shelter. She arose. Her feet hitting the cold bedroom floor, she began her day. The doves cooed outside her bedroom window, despite her desire to sleep in. She felt deprived of her much-needed rest. She wished the mourning doves would disappear, too.

  Cat laid back down attempting another hour of sleep. She slept two hours. The mid-morning sun shone lustrously through kitchen window, and fresh coffee awaited Cat when she made her way downstairs. No signs of Eleanor were present, and so Cat sat and contemplated the night as lucid memories of a certain dream. It troubled her heart and mind. “Thomas, Thomas…who is Thomas?”, she mumbled to herself. “Eleanor knows—no question about that.”

  Catherine returned to her room to dress and freshen up. When she finished, there were still no signs of Eleanor, so she found herself standing at her guest’s bedroom door. She heard Eleanor talking, quite distinctly, once again, to someone.

  “She still lacks understanding,” Eleanor said to Tadhg, as if she was pleading for time.

  Catherine knocked on Eleanor's door, then opened it wide. “Who are you talking to?”, she asked, again; but this time, to her surprise, Eleanor wasn't behind the door. Knowing she’d heard Eleanor’s voice, Cat opened all the nearby doors in that section of the manor, searching; yet, Eleanor wasn't anywhere nearby.

  Catherine moved to the hall window that looked out over the backyard. Across to the pasture and up along the forest tree line that clung to the hillside, she saw Eleanor. Once again, her guest was picking something from the melting snow. “Seems to be flowers,” Catherine said, “winter flowers, I assume. But, the voice I heard was her voice. And yet, I guess it couldn’t have been her. There she is by the forest. I must be going crazy.” Cat decided to go to her own bedroom.

  Once there, she felt she needed to do something normal for a change, so she began to make the bed. But, when she pulled up the linens and the down comforter, a locket fell to the floor. It lay open on the ground, and she took a deep breath before bending over to pick it up. She knew what it was. Although, she didn’t know the whole story, she knew it was something tangible that related to her dream. It was all so vague now, but in the dream everything was vivid, real, and right. The realization of the dream unfolding before her, caught her attention. It was the locket from her dream, with the boy and her younger self named Elizabeth, or Beth, it seemed. “He called me ‘Beth’… Cat remembered.

  The picture of the young boy caught her eye. It was the same photograph that the boy was looking at last night, in her dream. The locket held the same pictures. It confirmed that the dream, the locket, Box #2, and Eleanor were all connected, somehow—they had to be. Now she was in a full-fledged panic. “Thomas? But, who are you? What do you want?”, she thought, but it was all so confusing and frightening. She made her way downstairs, dazed, confused, and weary—very weary.

  Alone, Catherine sat in the living room chair with the locket in her hands. She closed her eyes trying to remember her dream. “Thomas—Thomas—Thomas. Thomas, come back!”, she repeated, over and over. She did not see his apparition beside her, dressed in English boy shorts and whispering softly back to her calls.

  “I’m here, right here with you, now,” he said, even though she could not audibly hear him. A tear ran down her cheek. “I’m losing touch with reality; the only thing I knew as truth. Now, nothing is true. I’m going crazy,” Cat sobbed.

  The firewood began to blaze. It popped and crackled merrily, as embers flew everywhere. The candles in the room flickered. Something or someone from a different plane—something—who could know what—was trying to reach her. She accepted the fact at this point, for the atmosphere was electric. Her surroundings were trying to tell her a story. The changes in physical realities that are true and could be seen, felt and heard, were no longer what they were. Cat was curious, but fright
ened to death. These physical happenings could no longer be ignored. She was ready. “I will listen,” she thought. Lovey wasn’t with her. He had been sleeping next to her during the night as she had hugged him closely during the dreams. But, perhaps Eleanor had taken him outside?

  Her Dreams of Times Past

  Cat rocked back and forth in her grandfather’s rocking chair—intent on learning the truth. Concentrating, meditating, and holding the locket that pictured the young boy apparently named Thomas, Catherine knew he was a mystery that required solving. He had visited Elizabeth in a dream and Little Beth knew him as Thomas. Confused, Catherine didn’t know what to do; she needed answers. She didn't know anyone named Thomas. As far as she knew, she was an only child. So, who was this boy that seemed like a long lost brother?

  The back door opened and Eleanor came through it and into the kitchen, chipper as always. "Hello, dear. How are you this morning?” She spoke loud enough that Cat heard her in the den. “You slept late. Are you alright, dear?”

  Eleanor entered the den and looked at Catherine sitting in the rocking chair bundled up in a blanket, rocking back and forth, back and forth at a steady rhythm. “You seem sad, disturbed. What's troubling you?” But, Eleanor’s sixth sense jumped in, almost immediately, to advise her that she needed to butt out and allow the ghosts to speak to Catherine. In due time, Catherine would speak; and Eleanor, like a good fairy godmother, would be there; but time was getting short. Eleanor was only given a certain amount of time to complete this job and it was taking longer, because of the gaping emotional wounds that Cat bore. Eleanor knew she could not force any battle. If it was forced than it would be lost, most assuredly. No, she must be patient.

  Catherine hesitated, then spoke. “Eleanor, who is Thomas?”

  “Thomas?”, Eleanor repeated, as she was arranging fruit in a bowl.

  “Yes; and no games—straight out—who is he?”, Cat begged.

  Eleanor reached to put the winter flowers into a clean vase before she turned to Cat. “Come into the living room dear. Let me show you something.”

  Eleanor went straight for the scrapbooks that she’d tried to hint at earlier. There were three of them, and she took the first one up, moving to sit on the couch with Cat. Sitting together, Eleanor reached into her tote—“the bottomless pit”—as Catherine now called it. From inside her tote bag, Eleanor lifted out a magnifying glass holding above the first open page of pictures in the first scrapbook. “Do you remember any of these people?”, she asked.

  Catherine looked at each of the many pictures of people, foreign places, but she recognized no one. She shook her head, “No. I don’t know any of them.” But…the face of a light sandy brown-haired, brown eyed boy caught her eye. “Eleanor, this is the boy who visited me in my dream last night. Is this Thomas; do you know him?”

  Eleanor held up the picture and inspected it using her magnifying glass. She looked at Catherine. “Well, dear, you tell me his name.”

  Cat froze. All the questions perished in the pinnacle moment when she suddenly had the opportunity; the questions she had formulated turned to mush. “No, I can’t think. I mean yes, but I have questions.” Cat gathered her thoughts. This was the moment she had waited for. She took a deep breath. “Please tell me what is going on? My dreams were bizarre and unstopping. All fragments of people I thought I knew.” She hesitated.

  “Dreams tell us things. You must look at the sequencing, put all the symbols together, and label them as something that means something to you.” Eleanor explained, “For instance, ‘Who is Thomas, and who is Elizabeth? Is she…me? And, why and how am I involved in these dreams?’”

  Cat had to know; and she could now clearly recognize that Eleanor had come for a purpose. “Why, Eleanor? Who sent you?”

  “I told you last night who I am. I am because you asked me to come and help you. That is truth.” Eleanor told in a serious manner, “I don’t do the work for you. I don’t wave a magic wand to cause your truth to come instantly. But, I do lead you. The tea opened your mind to possibilities that you will figure out. That I promise.”

  There was a pause as Eleanor reached for another old scrapbook. “There it is. Now, Catherine, tell me what you know about your heritage? Where did your families come from, and how did they get here?”

  “Well, I haven't any surviving relatives on either side. I’m the lone wolf. What I understand is that my father’s family and ancestry were those of prestigious French politicians, lawyers, professors and scientists. Their rich heritage came from French aristocrats born before King Louis XIV relinquished entitlements. In the 1700s, they changed their name, becoming the ‘Dubois’ family instead of the ‘du Bois’—before they migrated to England. In the 1800s, they joined the other Dubois’ families who settled in America—before 1804—with the ‘Vente de la Louisiane,’ now known as The Louisiana Purchase.

  My paternal great-great-uncle settled in the Appalachians. My father’s great grandfather and his wife came with him. That is how my mother and father arrived here to this small settlement—to Glory Town. That’s all I know.”

  Cat explained her known heritage; however, it sounded like a history textbook, without any emotional attachment—just very matter of fact.

  “I see,” Eleanor said as she listened, but she was shocked to think Catherine had no idea who she was. “No one has ever given you any real information—just epic dates, and proud names? No personal stories told about your real grandmothers or grandfathers? No real events to connect you on an emotional level to your heritage? Sad. Truly sad.” Eleanor gently shook her head, “No, I cannot fathom this tragedy—that a child knows nothing about sentimental soul attachments.”

  Cat watches Eleanor’s disappointment, learning that she doesn’t have any inclinations about who she truly is.

  “On the other hand,” Eleanor added. “On your maternal side, so little is known by you, except that your mother and, of course you, are English. Your mother’s last name was Duke; and, it is because of the Dukes that I am here, now, with you.”

  “No, not exactly,” Cat said, “my group was assigned to the Duke clan. So, I know a great deal about the Dukes. My mother’s family weren't worthy of discussion, unlike my father’s side. Mom was a nobody to the Dubois family.” Cat spoke from her earliest memories—mostly of conversations held between her mother and father. “The oddity of not knowing much about my mother’s heritage angers me, as you probably know or would suspect. Her family was almost never mentioned. They were commoners. The absurdity of it all! Who did my father think she was—a nobody? Oh, who cares; I'll never know. It doesn't matter, and, even if it did, there would be no way to prove anything. After all, everything was destroyed in the fire. All the records and everything. Nothing remained.”

  Eleanor tilted her head in question to the suggestion of a fire? “What fire, dear? I’m not aware that the family had a fire.” Eleanor had known the Dukes for a century, and there hadn’t been such an incident, to her knowledge. Eleanor realized that Catherine’s memories were definitely distorted, and bent in untruths. “Do you know when and where it was?”

  “Well, they told me it happened when I was young, maybe three or four,” Cat said.

  “Who are they?”, Eleanor asked, perplexed. Perhaps she had missed something important to Catherine’s case and this worried her.

  “My mother and father. We moved here to Glory Town after it the tragic event. They said we had nothing to stay for—that we had lost everything,” Cat explained without a doubt as to those facts.

  “What do you remember about your mother and father?”, Eleanor asked, trying to awaken any more buried memories. “Be specific, if you can, dear; that would help.”

  Catherine flashed back to a memory of her father. “Daddy was tall, immaculate, polished and reserved, a Christian by title and belief,” she said. “He was a church elder and lord over my sweet, meek, and quiet mother.” The memory of her mother was terribly dull and had faded into almost nothing except her lovel
y smile. “Mother was warm and friendly, but said very little.”

  Eleanor was curious about hearing more of Catherine's early childhood memories. “Do you have any earlier memories? Memories before Glory Town?”

  “No, not really. My father said the fire was so bad he wanted me to forget it. Really, I think he and mother wanted to desperately forget it, themselves. They refused to talk about it; and father would say, ‘That was our past. Today is our future, and we will never look back.’ If mother tried to talk about it, he got angry at her and would say, ‘Hush, Catherine! Don’t let me ever hear you say another word about it. The past is dead. Do you hear me?’ Mother and I never shared another word or cried any tears about the fire.”

  Further questions from Eleanor were cautiously worded to Catherine. With great diplomacy, she asked, “Dear, where were you living when the fire occurred? Do you specifically remember smoke or a blaze?”

  “Hmm… I’m not certain. I was so young. It was before I was four, and the fact that we couldn’t ask questions or talk about it, made knowing or even remembering anything almost impossible.” Cat did her best to recall, but couldn’t.

  “Haven’t you wondered, anything about it?” Eleanor provoked Catherine to questioning herself about being involved in a fire that can’t be remembered. “That’s odd. Fire’s are hard to forget, though possible, I guess for a toddler.”

  “Well, yes—only because, in my mind, I knew we were not Glory Town founders or old timers. The community made that clear. The kids treated me different for many years. Maybe that is why they treated me poorly, later, as well. I’m not one of them.” Cat kind of laughed.

  Eleanor nodded her head in silent agreement of how sad it was that children could be so discriminatory. “When the children made fun of you, did they ever call you names, or say anything that made you wonder about what they might have known that you didn’t? Were there any clues as to why or what made you stand out, or made you different from all the rest?”