Mr. Walters conveys the reality of mystical worlds and our interaction with them very eloquently. He states that there is "one true love in its infinite expression," meaning there is one connection, above all others that can make us feel whole, like our full selves. This book is highly recommended for the reader seeking a love story that knows no limits. As a metaphysical novel, one can expand their views of worlds and civilizations existing with us, and how we may affect those close to us with or without our knowledge.
“Sacred Vow” is highly recommended, and a sequel would be much welcomed. —Catherine Phelps for Reader Views
Installment 11 of 22 Sacred Vow (Dragon's Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).
Ian was sitting by the riverbank, about a mile from Liz’s house, atop a massive stone, under an old hemlock, within view of the bridge on the state road. It was seven o’clock in the morning, just when he’d been asked to arrive, which had required that he start down the road for this meeting in the middle of the night.
It was cold on the top of a rock by the river, a little after sunrise in January. Ian looked out over the water. If Liz’s psychic friend is worth all her claims, perhaps he’s brought me here for a frigid dip in the river, to bring me to my senses, Ian thought bemusedly.
“Not at all,” someone responded out loud, seemingly from nowhere.
Ian’s legs jerked and he had to grab the rock to avoid falling into the river. Fortunately, the top of the rock was mostly flat and Ian had been careful not to sit too close to the edge. He had seen no path except the one coming from the bridge. Being surrounded by thick rhododendron, Ian felt justified in watching only the bridge for signs of another person’s arrival.
Ian jumped to his feet and looked down in the direction of the voice. At the base of the stone, on the edge of the river was a muscular young man. His hair was long and pulled back into a French braid. His face had a peculiar combination of both male and female characteristics, strength and softness.
The young man’s voice did not give any indication that he had noticed Ian’s embarrassment. “Good morning, Ian. Thank you for meeting me here. Sorry for the inconvenience. I needed to gather some things along the river this morning.”
This was Djalma, Liz’s psychic? Now Ian was aggravated. He had driven half the night and sat on a freezing rock to meet an eccentric, longhaired, blond Anglo kid? Ian had wanted a legitimate mystic.
Ian’s mind exploded in doubt. Where did this guy get such a name? The exotic choice was probably with the idea that it added some credibility in his chosen vocation. If he truly had any talent for the preternatural, what difference would it make if his name were something ordinary like Joseph?
As an imagined defense, considering that a psychic might be capable of reading minds, Ian forced his thoughts into silently quoting the first thing that came to mind from Hamlet. “Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows—”
Unfortunately, Ian found that his frustration was stronger than his fear of Djalma’s possible talent. His mind went on the offensive again. He distinctly remembered Liz referring to Djalma as “this old fellow.” Didn’t she know that psychics and mystics should be of a more mature age? How else would they be able to project the bearing of wisdom? Here I am in the mountains with an eccentric kid half my age, a junior psychic sorcerer!
Ian went back to focusing on lines from Hamlet to mask his real thoughts.
If Djalma was reading Ian’s mind, the calm of his face showed no evidence of taking the hysterical mental chatter personally.
Finally, Ian slowed his mind down enough to say, “Good morning, Djalma. I didn’t hear you come up.” From wherever you came, he thought. Ian looked about to see from just where that could have been. “Nice morning for a hike.”
“A little cold for my liking, Ian. We’d better get on with our business. It’s going to start raining in an hour.”
Oh, great, Ian thought. Now I am going to get caught in the mountains in a blizzard or an ice storm. No way was it going to be just rain at this temperature.
Forcing himself from his true thoughts, still neurotic about Djalma’s possible talents, Ian returned to Hamlet. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! Noble in reason, indeed, he thought ironically.
Amazed at how much of Hamlet he actually remembered, Ian struggled for self-possession. Okay, how would he and Djalma go about the real subject at hand?
Djalma climbed around the side of the rock and started toward the bridge. As he passed by, he touched Ian on the shoulder and spoke with a gentleness that Ian normally associated with someone much older. “I’m sorry I‘ve disturbed you. This wasn’t my idea. Let’s move over there in the sun, where it’s a bit warmer.”
That brief touch, even through a bulky jacket, gave Ian a remarkable sense of reassurance. He no longer felt any hard feelings toward Djalma for having brought him out at such an odd time. In fact, he was suddenly content to be where he was. He replied in all honesty, “We don’t have to have this talk today, if it’s inconvenient for you.” Ian truly felt freed from his own need and full of concern for Djalma.
“Oh, I wasn’t referring to our meeting. I really am glad to meet you. What I meant was that I didn’t ask to be useful in such matters. It’s sometimes as uncomfortable for me to be consulted about these things as it is for the people who come to me.”
Never breaking stride, Djalma looked over his shoulder and smiled. “By the way, you’d have to ask my parents what they had in mind with the name. I’ve considered changing it.”
I knew he could read my mind, thought Ian.
Djalma led them to a warmer spot, out from under the trees, and a little removed from the river, but there wasn’t much more warmth. The sun had barely crested the mountaintops and the clouds were rolling in.
Djalma started the conversation, “How did you come to learn this talent of visitation?”
“I might be learning now, but it began more as something stumbled onto, I think,” Ian said.
“Oh, I doubt it was purely by chance, friend,” Djalma said. “It requires something much more than luck.”
Djalma asked Ian a few more questions. Ian was surprised at how comfortable he became in sharing information with this stranger. Every question Djalma asked unleashed a flood of response from Ian. It was a relief to share his full experiences with someone who fully accepted what he said. Ian felt immensely closer to a solution.
As wrapped up in warm clothing as Ian was, the cold damp weather was beginning to get to him. Djalma was periodically brushing his hands up and down his own sleeves, too.
“Are you up for a little walk?” Djalma asked. “No need to move your car. It will be all right. My house is just through the woods, and I have a fire going there.”
They wandered away from the road, through the trees and rhododendron, on a worn path through the thick evergreen forest. Suddenly, a tiny house appeared. It was the size of a small storage building. Made of rough-sawn lumber, it had a high-pitched tin roof. A covered porch, which was mostly storage for firewood with a narrow path left to the door, extended about eight feet from the front of the building.
Djalma grabbed a couple sticks of wood from the pile as he made his way to the door. Inside was a tiny woodstove whose fire had all but gone out. Putting the new pieces in, Djalma stirred the coals. Even though the temperature in the cabin was much colder than what Ian was used to at home, just to be in a place that was dry and warmed by the dying fire was a welcome luxury.
The interior of the cabin could not have been much more than 250 square feet. The space was divided into two rooms. The back room, more the size of a closet, appeared to be Djalma’s sleeping quarters. Through the drawn cloth that served as a door, Ian could see a thin pad and covers on a raised platform.
Benches sat against the opposing walls, just inside the door, and were the only seating. A very small table and an old, cast-iron sink, with large water bottles stored under it, were against one wall, farther into the house. Over the sink were a window and several shelves, sporting only a few pans and dishes. The woodstove faced the door, against the wall between the living and sleeping spaces.
Ian suspected that the massive number of books, which covered every inch of wall space not otherwise occupied, provided most of Djalma’s insulation. The weight of books seemed to exceed the sturdiness of the shelves perched over the bench where Ian sat. He hoped, however, that they would not collapse this morning.
Djalma made some hot tea and brought Ian’s over to him. Ian held the cup for warmth and Djalma put his own cup on the table next to the opposite bench. In a single step Djalma was back in the kitchen, pulling a large pot from the wall over the stove and taking a small knife from the sink. He sat down on the bench across from Ian and placed the pot on the floor in front of him.
With one hand, Djalma grabbed the bottom of the bag he had carried from the river and dumped it onto the floor. Roots, bark, twigs, and an occasional green sprig, along with a lot of dirt fell out. Paying no attention to Ian, Djalma picked up a handful of items and started to scrape, cut, and shred portions of his collected treasures, tossing parts in the large pot, parts in a bucket nearby. If Djalma had swapped receptacles for this work, Ian was certain that he would have never known which was to be compost and which was to become stew (or whatever it was that Djalma was creating).
In time, the reawakened fire required that they shed some of their outer garments. Ian forgot about the growing heap of ingredients in Djalma’s pot and the books perched just above his head. He talked easily about more of what had been going on while Djalma worked and listened. Ian told Djalma about his experimentation of moving items in and out of the room, as well as why he felt the teapot to be the central key to the event. Changing expressions on the young man’s face assured Ian that Djalma was absorbed in every word. Djalma rarely gave any response other than a grunt of acceptance now and then, until finally Ian was silent. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the fire crackling and the rain that had begun to fall on the tin roof.
When Djalma finally spoke, it was with a tone of concern. “What you have believed to be thoughtful furnishing of your home has actually been a bit of energetic alchemy. From what you tell me, you have been stirring this brew for a long time, and with some purposeful intent, though subconsciously.”
Djalma was proving to be most of what Ian expected of a generally proclaimed “wise” person, unerringly peaceful, possessing an occasionally disconcerting insight, and impossible to predict. After this brief statement, the young man seemed content to sit silently, as if waiting for Ian to process his diagnosis.
Ian wondered, is that it? Is that all he has to say, after all I have told him?
After fruitlessly waiting for Djalma to expound on his statement, Ian said, “Please explain what you mean.”
“First of all, you are comfortable, are you not, with the idea that everything is made up of energy, and the physical world is an illusion?” Djalma asked.
“Sure,” Ian responded. “In theory, anyway.”
Djalma spoke quietly, his eyes intently focused on Ian’s face. “Though not often experienced as you have recently, it is more than theory. It is so. How are you with the concept of infinite realities?”
Ian defaulted to an attempt at humor. “I like it, but no more than a couple nights a week.”
Djalma’s smile still conveyed seriousness.
“Sorry,” Ian said. “Just what do you mean?”
Djalma (to be continued next week)
last week, Liz (part 2)
copyright 2006 CG Walters
C.G. Walters primarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.Please join me as a friend at any of my other favorite hangouts: Facebook, StumbleUpon, Friendfeed, Twitter, Plurk, or Digg