Stranger Things Have Happened Ch 02

Madam Katrina was a clairvoyant-slash-psychic and she ran spiritual development courses at my 'new age' establishment. New age is a pretty generic term, but that's why I like it. It can include anything even the slightest bit eccentric, and I sell all sorts of things in my shop. Herbs, crystals, cards, Wiccan paraphernalia and Spiritualist regalia - you name it, I sell it, and to my constant amazement, rather successfully too.

Madam Katrina says that after meditating, one knows if one has reached a state of inner peace because they smile without forcing it. I admit, my smile is forced, but in all fairness, I didn't really 'meditate', I just did a few breathing exercises. I decided to take the time to meditate after all. Hopefully, I would receive the inspiration I needed to continue the next chapter of the how-to manual that would accompany Madam Katrina's next workshop on clairvoyance. Listening to Coldplay hadn't worked. Now it was time to bring out the heavy guns. I was determined that the entire day wouldn't be wasted.

The clairvoyance workshop is basically to teach the average person how to talk to dead people. I know that sounds a little bizarre. It tends to make me shudder when I think too deeply about it. Apparently, that reaction is symbolic of a block my strict Catholic upbringing has erected as a barrier to prevent me from achieving a true state of oneness with the Universe. Text book reaction, so I've been told.

I browsed through my CD rack until I found my favourite guided meditation. After you let the narrator's voice take you down into the lower layers of consciousness, you get to the good part. Basically, you lay on the massive bed your subconscious mind dreams up and places in the middle of a long, beautiful beach. You lie there and listen to the waves break on the shore and that's not even the best part. My favourite bit is when you relax on the huge four poster bed and your spirit guide comes to escort you to this magical mythical place so the spiritual truths of the universe can be revealed. So far, my spirit guide is a small balding man called Peter who has a rather large paunch and an attraction to beer that has lasted past the veil of death.

A shuddering sigh slipped out of my throat before I even realised it. Why couldn't I have a normal spirit guide like everyone else? You know, like a dashing hero with bulging muscles who lived some time before Atlantis sank? Or a higher form of intelligence from another planet, so evolved that they can make contact telepathically with people sensitive enough to receive their messages?

All I got was a bald, middle-aged man with a beer gut, which he swears is a power pack for a sex machine. I suspect that there is no such person as Peter, alive or dead, and he never even existed, either. Despite what Madam Katrina says, I'm sure he is just a figment of my imagination. I sell a t-shirt that has the six pack joke plastered over it in bright red. My subconscious is merely picking up on things I see every day. I have no idea where picked Peter up but I wished it would take him back!

Still, meditation is good for your heart rate and stress levels apparently, so it can only be a good thing. Maybe my subconscious would latch onto the man with the aqua eyes and would make him bonk me silly on the four poster bed plunked in the middle of a deserted beach in my mind! I can only hope and I'm entitled to fantasise I think. I mean, 'an' it hurts, none do what ye will' and all that. See? Even the Witch's tenet says it's okay for me to wish I would have an erotic meditation about some man I don't even know. Guilt free, self serving gratification that reduces your stress levels … better than chocolate really, isn't it? Better for your waist line too.

I slid the CD into my surround sound system. I love music. It's probably my only indulgence and it sounds great on a good system. There's nothing worse than floating down into a deeper state of consciousness only to be ripped out of it by a skipping disk. It's actually painful when that happens. Like, I don't know, splashing hot tea on your thumb after having spilled it from your cup and on to a tea spoon as a result of your hands suffering a nervous twitch under a wrought iron table.

I shook my head in an attempt to quiet my inner rambling and inhaled deeply through my nose. Madame Katrina's voice filled my lounge room in surround sound. I suppose it's probably incorrect of me to call the room I was sitting in a lounge. It's really more of a parlour, or was used as such when the original inhabitants built it any way.

S

hoosh! You are supposed to be quietening your mind, not rambling!

"Take your phone off the hook …and ensure you will not be disturbed for the next hour while you meditate," Madame Katrina's voice floated from the speakers, "Check that your posture is straight, and that your clothing is comfortable…"

Posture. Check.

Clothing. Well, yeah, I'm comfortable. I'm wearing my favourite weekend dress, the sleeveless one that hangs to my ankles. It's pink and I usually don't go for pink but apparently I'm a cool colour person so I need to go for pink and blue tones to bring my complexion to life. Make-up does that too but I can't wear make-up. Yep... Allergic. I can't even wear mascara and if there are two things I firmly believe in, it's mascara and properly shaped and maintained eyebrows. Seriously, if your eyebrows are waxed, tinted the right colour and shaped properly, it opens up your entire face and mascara! Even the ancient Egyptians used it! Well, actually, they used Kohl liner but I bet if Cleopatra'd had mascara, she would have worn it.

Alas, I can't wear it. It makes my eyes itch and weep. I wish I had those thick beautiful eyelashes that you see some people have naturally. The long sweeping ones that look like fans on their cheeks when they close their eyes. Like the man who volunteered to be Heathcliff's official rescuer, and really, let's be honest here, how unfair is that? He is a man for crying out loud! What does he need such beautiful eyelashes for?

I heard a groan in my mind.

Oh will you shut up!

"...And let your mind become like a piece of silk….let all the day's thoughts, all of your worries….just sliiiiide away…" Crooned Madam Katrina.

Ok. I'm shutting up.

I visualise a silk scarf and imagine my thoughts are little rainbow coloured bubbles. They float and slide from the scarf and disappear with a pop.

"Allow yourself to take the time to relaaaaxxxxxxx…." Madame Katrina's voice lowered a notch and became dreamy.

I love how she can do that. My voice is quite nasally and I hate hearing it on playback. I sound like Nanny Fran, only without the endearing accent. If I had the accent it probably wouldn't be so bad. I could pronounce 'here' as 'heya' and no one would accuse me of being a 'Queenslandah mayte". They'd probably raise their eyebrows in pleasant surprise and ask with faux British accents if I was from New York.

Shut up! I mean it!

Okay! No need to scream!

"Breathe in for a count of five….hold your breath…..exhale…ahhhhhhhhhhh" Madame Katrina said.

…rainbow coloured bubbles popping off the violet scarf in my mind. I'll just ignore the black ones.

You don't want to piss the inner voice off do you?

No, I definitely do not want to do that. I've already answered it, proof that I'm insane. I don't want to see what it's capable of doing to my mind if I make it cranky.

Last warning…shut…up!

Okay!

"You are walking down a set of stairs…a beautiful, quaint set of stairs that could lead to a mystical garden…and at the bottom you see a door…"

Yes! I see them! Oh …we are counting the steps down from ten... um...is it alright if I just chime in at number two? I missed the first eight

.

Groan.

"You open the door," Madam Katrina's soothing voice floated to my ears, showing me where to go, how to negotiate the world beyond the veil.

"You see a long stretch of beach, glistening sand…and in the middle is a bed…."

Oh please! Give me something GOOD in a meditation for once!

"You relax among the plush satin pillows…shimmering, gossamer curtains from the canopy over head float in the warm gentle breeze blowing in from the sea...and you feel safe ... relaxxxxxxxxxxxxx..."

I exhaled, completely emptying my lungs and a feeling of absolute calm washed over me. I heard the waves lapping at the sand. I felt the warm breeze lifting my curls. I'm pleased when I see the air in my meditative state doesn't make my hair go frizzy, the way humid air does.

"You see a figure walking toward you…along the long, white stretch of sand..."

Please let him be a hunk...

please!

If I can't find love at first sight like my parents and grandparents did, at least let me have it in my subconscious, use the image of the Heathcliff's rescuer! Please?

"The figure draws closer… you recognise it is your spirit guide, come to help you on your path through life…"

I heard a large rumbling belch that would make Homer Simpson look like an amateur.

G'day mate!

I was unable to hold my disappointed, heartbroken sigh and I fell back on the plush satin and velvet pillows...

Ooo! One's leopard skin!

I love leopard skin. I have leopard skin print shoes and a matching handbag and the quilt cover on my bed is leopard skin and the other day, I saw in a catalogue that you can even get leopard skin house and car keys cut at the cobbler's! I ordered a complete set. I might see if I can get Heathcliff a leopard skin print name tag too -

Still rambling, as always.

I rolled my eyes and thought/said, "Hello Peter."

He looks the same as he always does, a short, balding middle-aged man with a beer gut, stretched over which was a t-shirt that said 'Beer: So much more than a breakfast drink'. He was smiling at me, his eyes twinkled mischeviously.

I sat up quickly. "Don't you dare!"

He wiggled eyebrows that were so bushy I swear he had more hair in those two small patches than he did on his entire head. Grinning, he dived, spread - eagled onto the bed. It rocked and bounced so violently after he landed that I nearly flew onto the sand. He threw back his head and a great roaring belly- laugh erupted from him.

I was furious, livid in fact. I usually get that way when I'm disappointed and the cause of my sorrowful state, laughs and jumps on the magnificent bed that my subconscious mind has dreamed up.

I glared at him. "Why can't I just have a normal spirit guide like everyone else? Can't you arrange that?"

Peter gave me a bored look, "Oh and how do you suggest I go about lining

that

up, genius? I'm good but I'm not that good."

I wasn't willing to give up so easily for once.

"I just want one nice fantasy…I mean…meditation." I wheedled, "Can't you speak to the boys upstairs and arrange a substitute? Tell them we are having irreconcilable differences or something!"

Peter shook his head. "Nope, they only listen to that shit when it's a divorce."

"Then divorce me!"

"I can't! I'm not married to you!"

"Thank God for that!"

Peter gave me an indulging smile. The twinkle was still in his eye, the one that said clear as day he was going to do something else to me.

"I won't." He said gently.

"Won't what?" I asked a little surprised, wondering if he could read my thoughts.

"Of course I can read your thoughts, you know that! Beyond the veil I'm a god." He winked at me and chuckled.

"Then give me a hunk for a spirit guide!"

"Like the bloke working on Marge's fence?" Peter asked.

"Well, yeah, he'd definitely do but there is the small problem that he isn't meditating or dead."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Do you mind you insensitive woman? We dead people actually prefer the term 'passed over' if you don't mind."

"I'm sorry, passed over…but why is it that everyone else has the spirit of some Native American Indian for a guide and a wolf for a totem animal, and I have a beer swilling yobo and my totem animal is a wallaby!" I complained.

I frowned and turned away, a little furious at myself for throwing a tantrum but I couldn't do it in real life and this was

my

subconscious after all. I'd bloody well cry if I wanted to.

"Why can't I have Tecumseh's big brother as my spirit guide?" I sulked, "He had his head screwed on alright!"

"Ha!" Peter crowed triumphantly, "He can't be all that good when you think Tecumseh was basically a spoiled brat!"

"That wasn't his brother's fault!" I argued.

"Of course it was. If Pucksinwah knew his shit he would have flogged the selfishness out of the little bugga early in the piece."

"Oh whatever!" I waved a dismissive hand, "Anything would be better than a drunken sailor who's stuck in some bizarre time warp on the Kokoda Trail."

"Don't you go knocking the Kokoda Trail." Peter scolded, "Do you know how many pilgrims march the same way we went every year and come out with some amazing spiritual revelation?"

Peter looked at me with a serious expression. It bordered on being offended and I immediately regretted my words. I hadn't meant to make small of the sacrifices of so many, or of the spiritual gains of those who followed. I sighed and buried my head in my hands. It was for this reason that I avoided confrontation at all costs. I hated to make people feel bad, especially when I did it by saying something careless.

Peter reclined on his elbows and crossed his ankles. I noticed he was wearing Doc Martins. At least he had

some

taste.

Answering my thoughts, Peter smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I've always loved Docs too. Pity they didn't invent them in dubya dubya two, we'd have kicked the Japanese out of Papua New Guinea and straight back to Tokyo,

without

the help of the Americans!"

I groaned and rolled my eyes, making the sound I can only make when I do something I regret and am exasperated because of it.

"Please don't start with that," I pleaded, "you are supposed to be guiding my life, not boring me to tears with 'wories'."

"Nothing wrong with war stories me girl. If it wasn't for us you'd be eating with chopsticks now."

"I

already

eat with chopsticks." I said, my voice slightly raised, "Japan is one of Australia's foremost trading partners now, we are friends…well, it makes us a little cranky that they insist on whaling in our territorial waters but other than that, we get along fine now."

I looked out over the ocean. It was blue and calm, a beautiful day in my meditation. Maybe not everything was a loss. I was effectively having a day at the beach that didn't end up with my car being full of sand. I couldn't really complain could I?

"Nope." Peter smacked his lips together and looked over the ocean as well. "Can't complain at all."

We sat in companionable silence for a few moments. Peter's head move sharply to look at me, as he always did when he had something important to say.

I groaned. "What now…?"

"Want me to tell you why you have a yobo as your spirit guide?"

"You will anyway." I said.

He ignored me and started speaking as though I had said 'yes please, I would love to know!'.

"Because, if I was an American Indian like the rest of youse blokes have, you'd think I was a figment of your imagination. Just as you think all your friends' spirit guides are loads of crap."

I looked at him aghast.

"I do not think that!" I cried, indignantly.

"Yes you do! No point lying to me Missy, I can read your thoughts remember?" Peter winked at me as though he had scored some point in the argument.

I warmed to the topic. "I do not think that…well, I kind of do, but I don't think they deliberately make them up."

"Whether or not they do is none of your concern." Peter gave me a superior, condescending look. "Now what did you want to ask me?"

I blinked at him. "Nothing. I don't want to ask you anything! I didn't even want you to come to my beach or turkey dive on my bed! I wanted a nice tryst in the sand with the bloody tradie working on Marge's fence!"

Peter narrowed his eyes slyly and smiled at me. "You know, I can't make anyone do anything. But, I hate to see me favourite sheila disappointed."

I furrowed my brow with confusion. "What are you going on about?"

Peter smiled. "Think quickly me girl, real life or in your mind?"

I heard a distant noise that sounded disturbingly a lot like my door bell ringing. I was overcome with an unreasonable sense of urgency, as though I had to answer quickly.

"Hurry up!" Peter prompted and the doorbell rang again. "What's it to be?"

Live dangerously for once!

The door bell rang, as though someone was standing outside my home holding their finger to the small button...

…And just like that, I was hauled from the deep state of meditation and my awareness once more in my neat little lounge. A static noise came from my surround system and assaulted my ears. I was surprised to realise that I hadn't even heard the CD had finished. That never usually happened. I always heard Madame Katrina's voice the entire time I was under.

The doorbell rang again, startling me. The accompanying jump was a little belated; I was still a bit dazed.

"Okay!" I exclaimed, "Keep your pants on!"

I staggered to my feet and bumped my way toward the front door. When I tore it open, my eyes met the most magnificent round, blue eyes that I'd only ever seen the likes of once before…

"Heathcliff!" I gasped.

For a moment, it looked as though my cat was suspended in mid air. After blinking a few times to clear my still blurred vision, I saw he was being held in two muscley tanned arms against a broad, defined -

shirtless

- chest. I knew if I allowed my eyes to keep travelling upward, I would see that startlingly white, picture perfect smile and those amazing aqua coloured eyes. I felt a migraine coming on.