The Search for Bridey Murphy (23 page)

“That’s for a yawn!” she answered automatically.

I heard what she said, but I didn’t comprehend its import. “For
what?
” I asked. But I might as well have saved my breath. Bridey Murphy and her jig were gone. In her place was a stunned Ruth Simmons, who not only couldn’t answer my question but who was not even aware of the words she had just spoken.

While she sat down, still wondering what it was all about, I puzzled over the “yawn” matter. Then the pieces came together; it was the
Morning
Jig that had been referred to during her trance. Morning and yawn—it began to make sense. But logic was the only test we could apply at the time; since none of us there was a master of Irish jigs, the final check would have to await the search for Bridey Murphy in Ireland.

The third session marked the end, at least for a few months, of my experiments with Ruth Simmons. The company was sending me to New York to learn something about security analysis, the art of examining a stock or bond so microscopically that you can hope to forecast its future.

Arriving in New York, where I enrolled in several courses in addition to the stock market study, I hardly had time to think about Bridey Murphy. But I did want to check certain points which I thought could be uncovered in New York. While Macintosh’s research books had yielded confirmation of several items—he had found, for instance, the Belfast
News-Letter
, Queen’s University, the Cuchulain story,
the Sorrows of Deirdre
, and others—there was considerable information that couldn’t be checked in Pueblo.

To take one example, Mac had been able to turn up nothing on the Irish town of Baylings Crossing. Bridey claimed to have passed through this place, but no atlas showed it. Either Bridey was wrong or there was some reason why this place failed to appear in any atlas Mac had studied.

So in Manhattan I tried to solve the mystery. First I telephoned the Irish consulate and asked whether they could tell me anything about a place in Ireland known as Baylings Crossing. But no, they had no record of any such place. They suggested that I try the
British Information Service. I did. The answer was the same: they couldn’t find it, but why didn’t I try the British and Irish Railways? I telephoned the British and Irish Railways, but it availed nothing. There just did not seem to be a Baylings Grossing.

It was not until several weeks later, while Hazel and I were spending a weekend with a friend on Long Island, that we finally had more encouraging news about the object of our search. Our host’s neighbor, an enthusiastic gardener especially proud of her asparagus, stopped by to leave a generous sample.

During the ensuing conversation we learned that our visitor had spent a few years in Northern Ireland during World War IL Although I had no idea whether Baylings Crossing, if it actually existed, was in Northern Ireland, I took a shot in the dark: “Did you by any chance ever hear of a place called Baylings Crossing?” I asked.

“Certainly. I bicycled through it many times,” came the prompt reply.

When I asked her why it wasn’t on the map, she answered that no map would be large enough to list all such tiny Irish crossings.

A few weeks after that the incident above was practically duplicated. Talking to a woman about another matter, Hazel and I noticed that her speech was thick with the brogue of old Erin, and found out that she had been born there. Sure and she had been through Baylings Crossing many a time. And sure, she knew what she was talking about—of course it wouldn’t be on any map.

So at least we now had unofficial confirmation of a place in Ireland that we could not find on any map or atlas. Yet Bridey Murphy had insisted that it was there.

Even St. Theresa’s Church gave unexpected difficulty. The Irish consulate told me that they showed no such church in Belfast, nor was it listed in their Belfast telephone book. I was given the same information by a man who answered the telephone at the British Information Service. Before hanging up the receiver, however, he decided to check one more reference.

After several minutes he returned to the telephone. “Yes, there is a St. Theresa’s in Belfast,” he said. “It’s a Roman Catholic Church.” At the time, however, there was no way of knowing whether this was the right church or whether this was even the correct spelling.

During the early sessions Bridey, when asked for “Irish” words,
had given us several expressions (such as “colleen” and “banshee”) that almost any of us, without any intimate knowledge of language, would recognize. There were a few terms, however, with which I—and everyone else I asked—was entirely unfamiliar. For instance, the word that sounded, as it came from the tape recorder, like “brate.” When Macintosh couldn’t dig it out of any of his source books I began to make inquiries among elderly Irishmen. But none could help me.

My luck didn’t improve, moreover, when I resorted to the reference books in the New York Public Library. Nor did the English-Gaelic dictionaries solve the problem, and the closest thing I could find in them was the word “brait,” which means expectation. This would seem to be stretching Bridey’s definition, for she had contended that a “brate” was a little cup on which they made wishes and then drank from in the hope that the wish would materialize. “Very Irish, you know,” Bridey had assured us.

I had almost forgotten my quest for the little “wishing” cup, when something turned up quite unexpectedly. I had been playing the tape recording for a well-known author, a woman of English descent, when Bridey referred to the cup. The author abruptly asked me to stop the recorder. Referring to her collection of antiques, she pointed out that she herself had one of these small cups, metal, with half handles extending from the top. She said, however, that she understood its correct name was “quait.” Whatever its spelling, I finally had, it would seem, some evidence regarding the item that I had been tracking down in vain.

Another word that provided unexpected difficulty was “tup.” Bridey had indicated that “tup” was a rather uncomplimentary reference to a male—a sort of “rounder,” she had said. But the dictionary defined tup as a “ram.” Further digging availed nothing—until I chanced to spot the word in Roget’s Thesaurus. While doing some writing I had noticed that I was overworking the nouns “man,” “fellow,” and “chap,” so I turned to the Thesaurus for synonyms. There, among a surprisingly long list of labels for the human male, was Bridey’s “tup.” Nothing indicated, however, the etymology of the word—nothing proved, in short, that it had been used in Ireland in the nineteenth century; that was still to be confirmed.

I had been in New York only one week when I came across an editor whom I had met several months before while investigating
the Cayce story. Because of his actual experience with the Cayce readings, I had put him down on my list of businessmen to be interviewed.

He remembered me and promptly asked how I was faring with my psychic research.

“Well,” I admitted, “it begins to look as though that fellow Cayce might have had something.” Then I outlined for him what had taken place since I had last seen him, concluding my summary with the “uncovering” of Bridey Murphy.

He said he thought I might have material for a book there and suggested that I write out about ten thousand words and let him have a look at it.

I did.

Later we both decided that it would be a good idea to make a few more tapes with my subject before beginning a search for Bridey Murphy in Ireland.

At the end of the course in security analysis I returned home to Colorado. Arriving in Pueblo, I called Ruth and explained the need for a few more sessions just as soon as possible. She pointed out that it would not be possible to commence at once: the Pueblo baseball team was making its home stand, and she and Rex never missed a home game.

So I waited until the Pueblo Dodgers left for Kansas to do battle with the Wichita Indians. Even then it was not all smooth sailing. Rex was becoming somewhat concerned. “Look,” he said, “I just want to sell insurance and be a regular guy; I don’t want to be dubbed a crackpot or a screwball.”

We eventually arranged for a session at Rye, a mountain resort where the Simmonses were vacationing for a few weeks. This fourth session, however, was cut short by a rather fantastic development.

Many times in the past I had instructed hypnotic subjects to open their eyes during a trance, but never in my experience had a subject opened his eyes unexpectedly. Nevertheless, that is exactly what happened during tape number four; it took place, moreover, in a manner that frightened everyone in the room, especially me, bringing the session to an abrupt and premature end. Here is the transcription of July 27, 1953 (after the preliminary age regression, which is omitted):

TAPE IV

All right, now I want you to go back in your memory. I want you to go back in your memory—on back, back—even before the time you were born—even before the time you were born. Even before the time you were born… drift on back in your memory to a time before, to a time, any other time when you see yourself in a scene which took place on earth… any other scene. And just as soon as you see a scene that you’d like to tell me about, you go ahead and tell me about it.

… I pulled… I pulled it off the roof with my brother.

You did what?

I pulled it off the roof with my brother.

What did you pull off the roof?

I pulled straw off.

Pulled straw off. I see.

Uh-huh.

All right. What is your brother’s name?

My brother… he’s Duncan.

Your brother’s name is Duncan?

Uh-huh.

Do you see the house clearly, do you?

It’s not the house I pulled it off.

What did you pull it off?

I pulled it off the barn.

The barn?

Uh-huh.

I see. Did you get a spanking?

Uh-
huh
.

Who gave you a spanking?

My mother.

Your mother?

She made me go… to my… chamber. And I had nothing to eat.

What was your mother’s name?

Kath… Kathleen. Uh-huh. What else do you remember?

… Uh… I remember my… brother… came to the door. He came over to the door, and he… talked to me, and he… he was sorry. And he…
it was really his idea
, but I didn’t tell them.

Oh, I see. You took the spanking and you didn’t tell them? Well, he got spanked, too, but… they didn’t… I didn’t
want to do it, but he said I should do it or he wouldn’t play with me any more.

I see.

So I did it. But I didn’t tell my mother that.

Was he younger than you?

No… he’s bigger.

Is he older?

Uh-huh.

How much older?

He’s… two years older than I am.

Uh-huh. And his name is what?

Duncan.

Who was he named after?

He was named after… my father and my grandfather.

That was their name too?

Uh-huh.

I see. How old were you when you pulled the straw off the roof?

… I… was… I think… I was about eight. [Irish brogue.]

About eight.

I think I was.

All right. Now see yourself getting a little older. See yourself getting a little older. See yourself growing up, watch yourself growing up. And pick any scene you want to and tell me about it. Just pick anything that you think would be interesting and tell me about it. Anything at all, and tell me about it.

… I… got a new sack comforter.

You got a new what?

Sack comforter.

Sack comforter?

Uh-huh.

What is that?

A coverlet for my… bed.

You did? What store did you get it from?

My mother sent… somewhere… scene lady makes them. And she had it made for me.

Where did the lady live?

… She lives… she lives… Oh dear, I don’t know where my mother sent exactly. She sent… to somewhere… to have it made… because I had… I had finished my school… and I had… I had done well… in school.

Did you?

Uh-huh.

How old are you?

I was… fifteen.

Fifteen?

Uh-huh.

What was the name of the school that you went to?

I went to… a day school.

Can you remember the name of it?

… Uh… uh. Now relax and don’t try hard… relax… relax… tell me the name of the school.

It was… Mrs…. Mrs…. Stray… Strayne’s… Strayne’s… Day School.

Do you know how you spell that?

Uh… yes, I remember it’s S… S… S-t… S-t-r-a… I see the
sign
… it’s a-y-n-e… uh-huh.

All right, is that what you see? S-t-r-a-y-n?

“E.”

“E,” all right. Mrs. Strayne, is that right?

Yes.

All right. And in what town is that?

That’s in Cork.

All right. Now see yourself getting still older. Just relax… just relax. Now tell me for a moment… tell me… what is the state of your trance? Is it light, medium, deep, or very deep?

Medium.

Medium? All right. Let’s take just a moment to deepen the trance… take just a moment to deepen the trance. Now take a deep breath. I’m going to count to five. I’m going to count to five, and with each count you will notice automatically and strangely enough that your trance will become deeper and deeper. Number 1. Number 2. Number 3. Number 4. Number 5… very deep… deep… deep, deep, deeper, and deeper. Now tell me, is your trance light, medium, deep, or very deep?

Deep.

Deep. All right. Now see yourself older. You last told me about Mrs. Strayne’s Day School. Now tell me… now tell me… now tell me as you get older what scene you’d like to tell me about. See some scene when you’re somewhat older. Tell me about any scene you like.