Two excerpts from Hopatcong Vision Quest

Past life experiences used to solve murders. Excerpts included are the beginning and the first regression to a past life in the Native American Village.

Chapter One

Lori

Time slowed while the overturned tractor-trailer spun toward Gary’s car. The trailer slid on its side, wheels spinning in the air, soaring straight at him, skidding across the pavement like a rolling boulder. Gary’s eyes froze on the huge, steel load until the mass hit, startling Lori from her nightmare.

She sat up in bed, inhaled a deep breath, then stood, her nightgown so drenched in sweat she needed to change. She stretched, paced for a few minutes, then moved to her bathroom where she swallowed an Ambien. Whenever Lori dreamed of the accident, her dream was always a nightmare and always the same graphic, painful experience.

But each time Lori imagined the accident while she was awake, she didn’t think of the pain. Instead, she wondered what went through her husband’s mind. Did her image come to him just before he died, perhaps in the light spring nightgown that had once been his favorite? Did he picture her holding Diane when their child was a newborn? Were his wife and daughter in his heart, thought of as two gifts from God fixed in time? Or were Gary’s last thoughts of that other woman?

#

Lori found it easier to cope when her twenty-seven year old daughter, Diane, was with her. But today Diane was at her apartment in Caldwell and Lori was turning to wine to help her forget. She was sipping her fourth glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, which had as much to do with the way her world was spinning as the grief did.

It was a cool day in late September. Lori wore a flannel shirt and an old pair of jeans, work clothes once belonging to her husband. She intended to restart her garden. The good days had passed for the peppers, eggplants, and tomatoes, so now it was time to make a fall planting. She would put in radishes, cabbage, and broccoli, vegetables that thrived in the cooler weather.

Her home was on the shore of Lake Hopatcong in New Jersey on a peninsula named Prospect Point and her garden was a small plot beside the seawall. The New Jersey soil and abundant water from the lake provided a perfect place to plant. The garden was generally productive and she was sure it would be again, even if planted while she was dizzy.

Lori swallowed a mouthful of wine then got down on her knees. At fifty-six years old, standing and bending flared her arthritis and reminded her she was aging like her withered plants. The world was more stable when she was on all fours. She laughed at that, although she wasn’t sure why.

She wrapped her fingers around the stalk of a tomato plant that had been good to her for the last couple of months. She pulled and the stalk broke off. She knew from experience that the plant’s roots were at least a foot deep, and would best be dug up with a shovel. She dug with her fingers anyway, because she liked the feel of topsoil on her bare hands.

She wished she, like this garden, could get a fresh start. She sniffed then wiped her wet eyes and nose on the sleeve of her shirt, or rather Gary’s shirt. She held her face against her arm and breathed in the damp flannel odor that smelled like her husband. Four months had passed since the accident. She should have learned to deal with those emotions by now, but here she was, crying again.

Lori felt a hand on her shoulder, then another grabbing the cloth of her shirt. She turned to see who was holding her, but her eyes couldn’t focus. They were filled with tears and the world was still spinning.

Whoever had grabbed her was pushing now, to the seawall and over into the lake.

The cold water brought Lori back to her senses. She hadn’t caught a breath. The water was only four feet deep. She struggled to stand, but someone was holding her down, keeping her head underwater. Her eyes were open and the lake was clear. She saw the lower part of the seawall and rocks, waterlogged sticks, and mucky leaves on the bottom.

Her lungs hurt too much. She couldn’t hold her breath even a minute. She gasped and choked. The world swirled then went dark.

#

Beth

Beth Jensen read about the death of Lori Larimer two days after it happened. She didn’t know the woman, but took note of a drowning the way all lake people do. The Jensen home was across the lake from Prospect Point, yet she couldn’t see the Larimer house from her dock. It was on the opposite side of the point near the little community beach. The article in The Daily Record said Ms. Larimer’s body had washed up near a dock on Raccoon Island. Martha Getty, a close friend of the victim, owned the island property. Beth realized she had met Martha, who worked at the vitamin store on Route 15.

She put down the paper when she finished her coffee and went to the hamper in the bathroom to collect the laundry. There were plenty of opportunities to get chores done now that Maya had returned to school. Beth had appreciated the time alone for a few days, but the school year had begun more than two weeks earlier. She was happy that afternoon when her daughter’s bus arrived.

“Hi,” Maya yelled as she closed the door. Beth came into the living room to see her daughter. Maya was nine, in fourth grade, and nearly five feet tall. She had a broad, playful smile with a crooked tooth on the right side of her mouth. Her shoulder length, straight hair was light blond, but would darken when the weather turned cold. Beth was still having trouble thinking of her child as old enough to ride the bus to school, yet Ryan insisted driving her would be overprotective.

“You hungry?” Beth asked.

“Sure.” Maya dropped her backpack on the floor rather than carrying it upstairs to her room, but Beth didn’t scold her.

“We’ve got muffins if you want one, blueberry or apple, and a glass of milk. Sound good?”

“I like blueberry.”

While they enjoyed their snack, Maya explained the memory jar project her class was working on. The children were supposed to bring in jars containing small items they’d collected from places they’d visited over the summer. It would have been helpful to know about the project before the summer began, but if a note had been sent home, Beth hadn’t seen it. Still, having a home on the lake would make it easier. Most of their memories had come from their own yard, dock, and boats. They could collect pebbles from the lake bottom or take the bobber off the floating keychain they used for the boat key. They could also scavenge the yard for duck feathers, a bird’s nest, or something else of interest.

“Can we play outside?” Maya asked.

Beth was in the mood for one of Maya’s games and decided they could collect memory items on the weekend. “Do you want to play hide and seek?” she asked.

“Oh yes, Mommy.”

Beth had wondered when Maya would outgrow hide and seek. They’d been sharing the activity since she was in preschool, but even in fourth grade, Maya still loved finding places to hide from her mother.

Once they were outside, Maya declared she would hide and her mom would seek, so Beth stayed on the patio, sat in a chair, and began counting to one hundred.

The house had two yards, one on the lakeside and one on the roadside. The game was starting near the lake, but the rules allowed them to circle the house. The dock and the boats had been off limits when Maya was very young, but at nine, she swam well enough to risk falling in the water.

Beth generally approached the game with enthusiasm, often getting dirty as she lay on her belly behind their shrubs or covered herself with leaves near the shed. She tried to win. The game wouldn’t have been fun for either of them if she hadn’t. Besides, part of the charm of hide and seek was that Maya’s size gave her an advantage.

This time, however, Beth's mind was on the memory jar project. After she stopped counting and started looking for her daughter, she kept an eye open for interesting objects that might fit. She could clip leaves or blossoms from the plants around the house, then press them and iron them into wax paper. Of course, the project was supposed to be Maya’s and her teacher would know Beth had helped with the ironing. Maybe a bad idea.

There were plenty of interesting things in Ryan’s boat; items like tie ropes and life preservers, but none were small enough to fit in a jar. She looked down at the dock and noticed the boat’s cover was loose on the dock side.

Maya wasn’t supposed to play in the boat. Ryan had said he was concerned about her safety, but Beth thought it had more to do with the possibility Maya could damage something. The bass boat was Ryan’s toy and he could be possessive about it. Beth sighed. Sometimes he acted more like Maya’s brother than her father. Still, playing in the boat was against the rules.

Beth walked in the direction of the dock until she heard something behind her. She spun around, but didn’t see anyone. Perhaps Maya wasn’t in the boat. Maybe she had just undone a few snaps along the side of the cover to throw Beth off her trail. Beth turned back toward the lake and stepped onto the dock.

She moved as softly as she could, but one of the wood planks creaked. When Beth reached the boat, she got down on her knees and lifted the cover. The top half of her daughter’s body was positioned under the steering column with her little legs sticking out like two angled flagpoles flying Mary Jane shoes. Hiding like an ostrich, Beth thought.

This was too sweet for Beth to bring to a close, so instead of telling Maya she’d been found, Beth continued the search. She let the side of the cover fall down and poked at the cover on either side of the windshield.

She wanted to get close to her daughter, but not close enough to touch her. Ryan would be so irritated if he saw her doing this. He’d say she was encouraging Maya’s misbehavior. But she didn’t see any harm, as long as they didn’t hurt anything in the boat or damage the cover. She crawled backwards a foot or so, then started to stand when she heard the dock board creak again.

Beth tried to turn, but before she could move, someone jumped at her and pushed her head down between the dock and the boat. What the Hell? she thought. Who? The boat banged against the dock, smashing her skull. She felt intense pain and started to scream, but muffled her cry, thinking of Maya hiding under the boat cover, hoping her daughter would stay out of sight. They’d taught her to stay hidden if someone broke into their house. Maybe she would...

The boat bashed her head against the dock again, causing more sharp pain. Someone was holding her down, but there was someone else there, pulling the boat back each time, forcing it against her head like a massive sledgehammer.

Beth’s life flashed in her head: memories of Maya as a two year old splashing about in a plastic pool on the yard in front of the lake, Ryan kissing her gently when she lay in the hospital bed hours after Maya’s birth, and the first night she’d spent with her husband in their Lake Hopatcong home.

The boat rammed against her a third time, then she was pushed head first into the water between the boat and the dock. Her lungs filled with liquid and she choked until everything stopped.

#

Next Section is further into the book �" the first regression to the past life

#

Oota Dabun

Oota Dabun was picking blueberries when she glimpsed a spot of light, like a reflection off the surface of the pond but in the woods, away from the water.

All the Lenape women participated in the important work of berry picking, along with their children, the boys as well as the girls. Even the babies who were too young to do anything other than sleep and eat were brought along. Oota Dabun’s best friend, Pules, had brought her infant daughter, Nuttah, into the forest, carrying the child in a flat cradleboard she wore on her back.

Pules and Oota Dabun had been friends since their own mothers had carried them on berry picking days. Pules was older, but only by a few moons. They were similar in height, but Pules was heavier. While Oota Dabun wore her dark hair loose, Pules parted hers in the middle and gathered it to both sides using ties decorated with seashells as round as her face. She had softer features than Oota Dabun, whose nose was long and straight and whose chin was flat. They both had dark eyes, although Oota Dabun’s were different because they were often circled with darkness. Pules said the darkness might be a sign of sickness, but Oota Dabun felt healthy and Abooksigun, the local man of medicine, told her not to worry. He said the darkness was a sign of an ancient soul.

Oota Dabun and Pules had wandered off where they could talk as they gathered. Pules took the cradleboard off and hung it on a tree while she started to collect the berries. Most of the berries would later be dried to be used in corn cake or eaten on their own.

Although Pules led a traditional life, she was the only person Oota Dabun could talk to about her hopes. A few men had asked Oota Dabun to marry, including her friend, Chogan, who would have made a wonderful husband, but Oota Dabun had refused them all. She wanted a vision quest first, despite the fact that the quest was a ritual rarely undertaken by women. Pules’ baby reminded Oota Dabun of what she was missing. If she waited too long, she might never have a child of her own. Yet Pules’ life wasn’t perfect. Her husband had died during a hunt, before their child was born.

“Something is in the woods,” Oota Dabun said.

“Something wrong?” Pules asked.

“I’m not certain, but it’s bright and out of place.”

Oota Dabun shifted from one foot to the other to look from different angles. She tilted her head and stepped to the right. The reflection reappeared, but only for an instant. They had been picking at the edge of thicker woods, where the berry bushes grew well. Oota Dabun stepped toward the place where the forest was dense.

“Careful. It could be a bear.” Pules voice was tense and sharp.

“A shiny bear?” Oota Dabun smiled wide. When she laughed all her teeth showed.

“You know what I mean. It’s dangerous to follow what you don’t know.”

Nuttah made a soft cry. Pules set down her basket and went to the tree where her baby was tied in the cradle. Both Oota Dabun and Pules were dressed for the heat of the summer, in wrap around skirts with no tops, making it easy for Pules to feed her daughter. She carried Nuttah in her left arm, stepped back to the bush and continued to pick, filling her basket where it sat on the ground.

Oota Dabun turned away from Pules and Nuttah to look back.

Pules said, “There isn’t much light in the woods. The sun would have to be peeking through a break in the leaves to reflect off a surface. What is the chance of that?”

“Are you saying I imagined it?”

“I’m saying it’s unusual.”

Oota Dabun leaned to her right to try to see clearer. “Perhaps it’s a sign,” she said.

“I’ll show you a sign. See how I’m picking more berries than you despite working with one hand? That’s a sign of someone not doing her job.”

Oota Dabun looked at Pules. She noticed Nuttah’s face was turned from her mother’s breast. “Is your daughter done feeding?”

Pules dropped a handful of berries in the basket then re-positioned her baby on her other breast. Oota Dabun smiled and stepped toward the woods again. She saw something move. At first, she thought it was a deer, but she noticed a head of thick hair which she could tell belonged to a person dressed in buckskin clothing.

“Someone’s lying on the ground.”

“A shiny person?”

Oota Dabun didn’t have time to respond to Pules’ sarcasm. “There really is a person there, someone who may be hurt.” She started to take another step, but Pules had hold of her skirt.

“What if it’s a white man or an Iroquois?”

“We have to help.”

“You watch from a distance. I’ll get one of the boys to run for Abooksigun.” Pules turned and headed toward the others, still holding her child.

Oota Dabun knew Pules was right. If someone was faking, the situation could be dangerous. If not, the injured person needed a shaman. She stepped back and breathed deeply. What if this is the sign I’ve waited for? she thought.

Oota Dabun glanced in the direction her friend had run. Pules would come back after she sent a boy to run for Abooksigun and others would come with her. She had only a few minutes to be alone. She breathed deeply and walked into the woods.

A white man with light brown hair and a thick beard lay there, breathing unevenly. His right arm was under his body, but she noticed a portion of a large gash in it. Oota Dabun knew she had to stop the bleeding.

She pulled on his unconscious body, rolling him so she could see the wound clearer. A long blade had been partially caught underneath him and now wasn’t. She picked up the enormous knife. She saw blood on the blade and a glittery, red stone in the decorative handle. The blood caused her to wonder if the man had defended himself. Could he have survived a bear attack? Also under his body was a long object which looked like a case for the blade. She shoved the blade beneath a bush, then undid a belt that held the case to the man’s waist. She put the case and its belt beside the blade.

Oota Dabun needed something to stop the bleeding. She looked at the man’s clothes. They were dirty and it would be hard to get them off. She thought of the light beaver blanket in Nuttah’s cradle. It would be a good size. She stood up and stepped back into the clearing. Pules had left the blanket there and at the foot of the tree was a gourd water bottle. Oota Dabun grabbed both items and returned to the man.

She used water from the gourd to clean the wound as thoroughly as she could, then wrapped the blanket around his arm. If the blood had been flowing quickly, she would have placed the blanket closer to his shoulder and twisted it with a stick, but the man had been lying on his arm. His position had caused the wound to fill with dirt, which helped to slow the bleeding.

She heard steps behind her. Pules had brought their friend Chogan along with the medicine man.

When Pules sent for Abooksigun, Oota Dabun had been certain Chogan would come, too. The men were together more often than they were apart. If she had not known them her entire life, she might have thought Abooksigun was Chogan’s older brother. Although Chogan was taller by the length of one of his hands, their square jaws and long, dark hair made them look similar. But the hunter, Chogan, with his simple attire, was smooth and clean like a river rock, while the shaman, Abooksigun, with his tasseled wrist bands and powerful necklaces, was like a garden stone, moss covered and draped with vines.

“He’s been bit,” Oota Dabun said, as Abooksigun unwrapped the blanket to treat the wound. Chogan took her by the arm and helped her stand.

“You shouldn’t have approached him alone,” Chogan scolded.

“That’s what I told her,” Pules said.

“The man is a gift from the life-spirits,” Oota Dabun argued.

“You don’t know that,” Pules told her.

“I saw him. The sun shone through the thick trees and reflected off a jewel in the handle of his giant blade. The spot of light came to my eyes and my eyes alone. It was a gift.”

“What blade?” Chogan asked.

Oota Dabun took him by the hand and led him to the bush near the man. Abooksigun had finished treating the wound and had started to chant. Oota Dabun held the blade up so Chogan could see it. His eyes grew like two moons.

“It’s an animal bite, a bad one,” Pules said, looking at the man. “He might not survive.”

Oota Dabun turned toward Pules. “He will,” she said, “The bite was not to kill him. It was to send him to me. The spirits will be good for our village and especially good for me.”

Abooksigun and Chogan made a stretcher from two tree branches and mats they’d brought with them and used it to carry him toward the village. One of the women would be asked to take care of him. Oota Dabun had not mentioned anything, but intended to volunteer. Pules would say she was crazy, but someone had to do the work and Oota Dabun had the most to gain.

Pules put Nuttah back in the cradleboard then Oota Dabun helped her strap the baby to her back. They picked up their berry baskets then followed the men.

They walked in silence for a short distance until Pules spoke. “Do you wish you were born a man?”

Tradition specified distinct gender roles, but Oota Dabun’s desires weren’t based on a simple tendency to break routine. There was a spiritual side to her interest in men’s work.

“I’m happy to be the person I am,” Oota Dabun answered. “I don’t care if I hunt and build houses or plant and make clothes. It’s the answer to a bigger question that concerns me. The Great Spirit speaks to all and I want a chance to listen.”

“We women have our time in the sweat lodge.”

“True, but we don’t spend time alone in the wild, seeking guidance.”

“We search in other ways, in our own ways.” Pules turned her back toward Oota Dabun, so her child was facing her friend. “Look at Nuttah’s eyes. I never felt closer to the Great Spirit than on the day she came to the world. Men can’t have that.”

“Any animal can bear young.” Oota Dabun regretted her words as soon as she spoke. She hadn’t meant to disparage Pules’s choice to marry and have children, but Oota Dabun had a path of her own. Pules turned away without speaking and Oota Dabun knew she had hurt her friend.