The Knowing: Awake in the Dark (23 page)

I’d given notice at work the week before the men came to my house. People exclaimed, “Are you crazy? You can’t move to a foreign country where you don’t know a soul and have no job and no one to help you.”

“Yes I can,” I’d replied. “I know it’s what I’m supposed to do next. It will all work out” and I
knew
it would. I wasn’t afraid. I began saving money immediately for our tickets, but in truth, I didn’t have a lot of cushion. I knew I had to find work right away. I
knew
I would.

In the weeks between our departures from the US, I stayed with my children at a secret location to keep them safe. We were running for our lives.

During and after the trial, I became paranoid and unable to sleep, afraid of the slightest noise or shadow. I could no longer sleep with the closet door closed, afraid someone was lurking inside. I was terrified to enter a darkened room afraid of who might be hiding there. I obsessively checked the rearview mirrors while driving, afraid I was being followed. I had recurring nightmares where Aaron was after me and I couldn’t find a place to hide. I woke up panting or screaming. I was unable to get into a car without getting on my hands and knees first and checking beneath it for bombs. I trusted no one
.

The cold splintered my bones as it burrowed into my body through the stone bench where I sat shivering in the sun.  I was on the Isle of Skye, touring Dunvegan Castle in Scotland. I was feeling significantly altered as I gazed at the massive gardens from my perch. Being at the castle spurred a memory of a past life, which I’d never had before.  The
pictures
started immediately and revealed pieces of an incarnation I hadn’t known existed before that day.

In them was a man with bright blue eyes and a wild beard whose kindness and love for his daughter could not be hidden. I
knew
I had been his daughter in that life, and the visions were a memory of my soul’s experience. I
knew
too, that they had visited this castle and had been going there since the girl’s childhood - my childhood.

In the first vision, the bearded man was outside on the castle grounds enjoying a warm day. He laughed and I felt his gentleness and the pain he still carried from the loss of his wife, who had died when the girl was a young child. He was intelligent with a quick mind and a volatile temper, but he was devoted to his daughter in a manner that was unusual for a man of his time.

In the next
picture
, the girl, of about fifteen years of age, stood at the back gate of Dunvegan, squinting against the sun, she watched and prayed for a ship to enter the loch behind the castle that would deliver the man she loved. She’d met him the summer before at Dunvegan and they’d fallen in love. I believe he was a Spaniard.

Dampness weighted her skirts and bitter cold burned in her feet, which she seemed unaware of. But the ship would not arrive and the girl would never see the man again. Next, I saw a fierce battle taking place outside of the castle, where the girl’s father had been caught unaware, forced to fight in a war of clans who were not his.

That day in a violent conflict, the girl lost her beloved father and was taken to a dark and cold windowless chamber, where she, along with other inhabitants of the castle, waited for days until the danger passed.

In the
pictures,
I watched as her father died at the end of another man’s sword. The stench of human filth, rage and bloody soil, left a reek of death in the air. In that life, I
knew
the girl wouldn’t recover from the loss of her father and a lost love who never returned. Death would find her before she bore children or felt the arms of a man she longed for – she died in youth of a broken and lonely heart.

The
knowing
was so powerful and the
pictures
so clear, no matter how foolish they sounded to another, I
knew
the truth and strangely, through the experience, I became more accepting and grounded in my gifts.

As I walked through the impressive castle that day, I
knew
what lay behind the walls in rooms I couldn’t see. In my mind’s eye, was a narrow staircase, off a room that was now painted dark blue, which was not visible to our group and when I asked the tour guide about it he said, “Oh, are you a friend of the family then?”

“No,” I’d replied, “but I’ve seen it before.” And he eyed me suspiciously.

I’d have dozens of similar experiences with the visions and the
knowing
, though only one past-life memory. The others were my ability to link with energies that most couldn’t see. Like the old woman I’d seen in my friend’s house as a child, she wasn’t actually there but her energetic imprint was. I drew an inner strength from each episode and grew more confident and secure. That was the gift that Scotland gave me.

The knowledge my abilities delivered opened up a way of understanding that helped me piece together the events of my life. Understanding released the need for judgment and letting go of the judgment made room for forgiveness, and that, gave birth to self-awareness. I began to trust in my intuition and moved forward taking responsibility for my life, without the need to place blame or label choices or myself as “bad.”

When I’d fled from the United States, I hadn’t known what to expect in Scotland. I arrived at a bustling Heathrow airport in London with two exhausted children and a mountain of luggage. After going through customs, we boarded another flight to Edinburgh where we were greeted by the brother of the man I’d met in Hawaii, whose furnished flat I’d rented before leaving the states.

The brother’s name was Regan and he recognized us immediately although he’d never seen us. His face lit up with happiness, as though we were old friends and he waved and shouted, “Nita, Nita! This wey.”

As we moved toward him, he gathered me in a firm embrace. “Oh, it’s good ti see ye. How wes your trip?” He asked in a thick Scottish brogue.

“It was long, but the children are great travelers,” I said looking at Raine who gripped Elizabeth’s hand tightly. “We are tired, though.”

“I cen well imagine. Let me get you to the flat then. I have some fruit and other bits and pieces there fur yi if you’re hungry.”

“Oh my gosh, Regan, thank you.”

Raine pulled at my sleeve, “I need the bathroom,” he said.

“Oh,” Regan answered. “The toilet is just there,” he said pointing. “Come on then, I’ll take yi.

Raine glared at him suspiciously.

“It’s alright, Raine. You go with Regan and I’ll take Elizabeth.”

“To the baaaath-roooom,” Raine said as he opened his mouth wide exaggerating the word for Regan, “not the toilet.”

Regan was warm and friendly and took us directly to our flat. As promised, a large basket filled with fruit, biscuits, jam and cheese sat on the counter of the small kitchen.

“Well then,” Ian said after unloading us. “I’ll leave yi to it then. I’ve written my phone code for yi should you need anythin and there is information for the markets and bus schedules an that, into the city. I’ll check in after a day or so. Right, cheers then.” He finished and hugged me good-by.

“Thank you so much, Regan, the place is really nice.”

The flat was located just outside of Edinburgh and days after our arrival, I took short bus rides into the city and things seemed to fall into place.

My nostril’s flared as I tipped them toward the sky breathing in the aroma of yeast and hops so prevalent in the city of Edinburgh. Cold mist moistened my cheeks in the early morning despite the late summer month as I made my way down Princess Street, known as the Royal Mile. Fragments of conversation floated past as I walked.

“Oh aye, hen. I ken whet ye meen. Those wee barins Ill ge up ti no good, so they will."

The two women chatted happily as they passed. Behind them a few paces a couple strolled arm in arm. “Aye, aye yer right, luv.” the man said, “You’ve ti listen if ye”… Another man clutching a briefcase hurried past gently bumping against me and mumbled, “Pardon, luv, cheers-ta.”

I took it all in. Although I was a visitor, I didn’t feel like one.

Edinburgh Castle loomed over the city, dominating like a giant sentry standing guard. Its origin dated as far back as the 9th century BC, but its first royal occupation was by King David 1 during the 12
^th
century. The medieval design was constructed by determined Scotsmen, who would be proud to witness their blood and sweat evidenced some 800 years later.  I admired the ancient stone structures that dotted the landscape, sculpted with steep turrets, stained and blackened with streaks from acid rain.

I was delighted to find on Sunday mornings, that bagpipers lined Princess Street stationed at each corner playing their Chanter and Drone for passersby. At the sweet rendition of Amazing Grace I cried, my heart was carried by the pipes’ wail while my soul was delivered home. The lyrical speech of the Scottish people sounded oddly familiar and had a calming effect on me. I had no difficulty understanding their thick brogues and in no time my children and I sounded as though we were born here, and I couldn’t recall ever feeling so at peace.

I walked the city streets in search of a job and on my third day, I found one at a bustling café on Rose Street. An enormous art-deco chandelier hung sparkling and bright in the center of the room, and on every table sat a shiny cafetiere filled with aromatic black coffee. The place looked hip and popular and I
knew
this was where I needed to be.

The manager was a dark haired, dark eyed, Scotsman of Irish descent, who poured on the charm smiling devilishly as he listened to my plight. I was hired as a waitress earning just two pounds an hour with no tips, the wage was offered “off the books” because I had no working visa. He promised to make me feel at home and show me his beautiful city, and he did.

His name was Robert and we spent all of our time together fascinated with one another’s past. Although we were young and not really in love, we made a commitment and several months later, Robert agreed to marry me so I could stay and work legally in the country. He dutifully accompanied me to the stuffy, institutional immigration offices where, after several visits of holding hands and exclaiming our love, I was issued a residency card. We couldn’t manage a long-term relationship, though we tried, and after six months we separated and lost track of one another.

Meanwhile, the children had their own reactions to our big move – very different from mine, and from each other.

Sleeping through the night was nearly impossible for Raine due to bad dreams. He developed tired, puffy bags under his sweet seven-year-old eyes. Raine struggled and fought against the new school and its rules.

He came home one afternoon during his first week, red- faced and angry. Violently, he tore off his blazer turning its sleeves inside out and threw it to the floor. He ripped the bright yellow and blue striped tie from his throat wrestling it over his head, slamming it in the heap with exaggerated vigor and screamed, “They sent me to the stupid head masters office because I ate pizza with my fingers! I told those stupids, THAT’S HOW YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO EAT IT! and I’m not using a stupid fork like a stupid sissy! And,” he huffed, “they call me Ah-MAIRR-ick-an and say I have a tail and chase me around. Look,” he said spinning around, “I told those stupids, I don’t have a tail. I hate it here!”

He was no longer a toddler who didn’t complain. He was a boy who’d been forced to give up his friends and his prized BMX bike and the toys he’d treasured because we couldn’t bring everything. A boy who was already uncertain of life. I hadn’t given him a stable home and the horrendous events in his young life shone bright in his wide green eyes, evidenced in a melancholy far too heavy for a child so young.

I’d focused so intently on survival and building a new life that I failed to see the damage my son sustained, both from the trauma we’d escaped, and the neglect and abandonment at my own hands. I couldn’t see the depth of his fear, distrust and sadness - that would boil and fester for years - creating an anger that billowed up from inside of him - exploding into a toxic cloud that threatened to destroy his life.

Raine would struggle with pain and anger for years, developing a false bravado for protection. He fought me until his spirit was bruised and bloody. He fought until he found his own inner strength, truth and a solid determination to love and be loved. But - as a seven-year-old boy in Scotland, he began to exhibit behaviors of a confusing and tumultuous life.

Conversely, Elizabeth loved clutching her brother’s hand while marching to the end of our gravel drive, clad in a smart school uniform, waiting for the bus to deliver them to school. She was delighted with her pleated, tartan skirt, gray tights and crisp white blouse all the girls wore. In her much younger class, she was not teased but admired for her golden hair and quick smile. Her teachers swooned over her, calling her, “A wee angel” who made friends easily and did not rail against the rules. As a youngster, she idolized her big brother and trusted him implicitly, until Raine began to take his anger out on her.