Part 15 (1/2)
”HAVE YOU READ THEM yet?” Charlie asked her on Wednesday morning.
”I've read a couple of them,” Sarah said, sending a newspaper soaring across a brown lawn to land precisely on a doorstep.
”Well, what was your reaction?”
”The concept is fascinating.” Sarah craned her neck to look back as the door of the house opened. A woman in a terry-cloth bathrobe bent to scoop up the paper without having to step outside. ”Did you see that pitch? Am I good, or am I good?”
”My wrist had better heal fast, or you're going to steal my route,” Charlie said. ”So, okay, the concept is fascinating. My question is, do you think there's any validity to it?”
”I'm not sure,” Sarah said. ”I haven't had a chance to read everything, but I was surprised and impressed by all that research. I hadn't realized so many studies had been done on people who claim to have past-life memories.”
”Dr. Ian Stevenson alone has more than two thousand cases on file at the University of Virginia,” Charlie said. ”In some of them young children started speaking foreign languages they had never been exposed to. How can you explain that, except that the knowledge of the languages was transferring over from former lifetimes in other countries?”
”I can't,” Sarah admitted.
”That theory would also explain the existence of child prodigies like those kids who are playing piano concertos by the age of five. In a former lifetime they might have been Mozart or Beethoven, or maybe just talented people who spent their lives playing instruments.”
”Why is it so important to you that I believe in this?” Sarah asked him, picking up another paper and sending it sailing out the car window. ”You're not exactly the type to be an evangelist.”
”It's not that I'm asking you to accept it unconditionally,” Charlie said. ”I just want you to accept that it's a possibility. Because, like I told you the other day, I've got a scenario I want to run past you, and I want you to be able to listen with an open mind.”
”Okay, I'm listening,” Sarah said.
Charlie drew a deep breath and then said slowly, ”I'm starting to think it's possible that I was living in Salem in the seventeenth century at the time of the witch-hunt. That may be why I hallucinated and saw the topic *Salem Witch Trials' as if it was printed in boldface on that handout in history cla.s.s. I came into this lifetime with that subject entrenched in my subconscious. All it took to bring it to the surface was to see those words on paper at a moment when I was vulnerable.”
”You've got to be joking!” Sarah had just picked up the last of the papers. Now she let the hand that held it drop to her lap. ”Now, I suppose, you're going to tell me you know who you were back then?”
”I think I may have been Giles Corey,” Charlie said, ignoring her sarcasm. ”I reacted violently to that name the first time I saw it, and when I started reading about the way Giles Corey died, I suddenly couldn't get my breath. It was like my ribs were caving in.”
”He was the one who was crushed to death?”
”That's the guy,” Charlie said. ”In order to be tried in New England, the accused person had to speak out to answer his indictment. When he was asked, *How will you be tried? he was supposed to answer, *By G.o.d and this court,' which meant he was giving permission for the court to try him. Giles Corey knew that everybody who was tried was found guilty, so he refused to open his mouth. Without his permission he couldn't be brought to trial, so they couldn't hang him for witchcraft. What they could do, though, was torture him to make him answer. He never gave in, so they crushed him to death with heavy stones. That was the turning point in the witchcraft epidemic. People suddenly snapped to how crazy things were getting, and Sir William Phips, the governor whose own wife was accused of witchcraft, issued a proclamation pardoning and releasing everybody.”
”You're serious?” Sarah stared at him, too stunned to know how to react. ”You actually think you were the man who put an end to the witch-hunts?”
”Actually, I do,” Charlie answered, almost smiling. ”Are you going to throw that paper, or are you planning to make a pet of it?”
Sarah hurled the paper without bothering to look where she was aiming. It careened to the left and landed in a bush.
”That's the craziest thing I ever heard!” she exploded.
”It would explain all these pounds I've been toting around with me since birth,” Charlie said as if he hadn't heard her. ”They're symbolic of the weight that put an end to poor Giles. You might say I came into this lifetime karmically weighted down.”
”Then what about me?” Sarah demanded. ”Remember, I saw that topic highlighted too! Do you take that to mean that I was involved in the witch-hunt?”
”That's for you to figure out,” Charlie replied calmly.
”If that were the case-which it most certainly is not!-wouldn't it be sort of coincidental that the two of us would just happen to wind up in the same town, the same grade, and the same history cla.s.s?”
”The whole idea of karma is that nothing is coincidental,” Charlie reminded her. ”Our lives are lived by a game plan that we agree to before birth. The theory is that souls that are karmically linked keep returning to this earth plane at the same time so that they can interact with each other. Did you read that book Beyond the Ashes?”
”I haven't gotten to that one yet,” Sarah said.
”It's one of the most impressive accounts I've ever read. Over a ten-year period the author, Rabbi Gershom, counseled dozens of people who, even as very young children, had detailed memories of former lives as Jews who were executed during the Holocaust. They were all about the same age, as if they had come back together to help each other adjust to that past-life trauma.”
”The Holocaust took place in Europe in the twentieth century,” Sarah protested. ”It didn't have anything to do with the witch-hunts in Salem.”
”I don't mean to imply there's a direct connection,” Charlie said hastily. ”I'm just saying the concept is similar. Certainly the Holocaust and the witch-hunts were very different, but both were atrocities that were rooted in group hysteria. If the witch-hunts and accompanying hangings had taken over this whole country, who knows how many innocent people might have been killed?”
”Home sweet home,” Sarah said in relief as Charlie pulled up in front of her house. ”I can't say this was the greatest hour I ever spent with you.”
”I didn't mean to upset you,” Charlie said.
”Well, you did,” Sarah told him. ”It's one thing to speculate about a concept like reincarnation, but it's another to say you've experienced it. It's like theorizing about where flying saucers come from compared with announcing you went for a ride on one. Are you going to insist that all the other people who took part in the witch-hunt have been reincarnated too? Is that why so many kids thought that topic was in boldface-because it triggered subconscious memories in all of them? Now I guess you want me to believe that we've got one big ma.s.s of former witches and witch-killers living in Pine Crest, because they made an agreement before birth that they were going to convene here? Charlie, give me a break!”
”I'm not going to insist on anything,” Charlie said quietly. ”It's obvious that I've said too much already.”
”You better believe it!” Sarah opened the door and got out of the car.
”You don't have to throw papers tomorrow,” Charlie called after her as she started toward the house. ”Mom won't be working on Thanksgiving, so she can help me.”
”Great!” Sarah shouted back at him.
”She's off the next day too, so you've got a two-day vacation, plus the weekend!”
”Quadruple great!”
”See you on Monday!” Charlie called as she hurried across the yard. Sarah didn't turn to answer him. She realized that she was hyperventilating as if she had been running a marathon. She let herself into the house, shoved the door closed behind her, and then impulsively locked it as if securing it against demons. Immediately she was struck by the absurdity of the gesture. Who or what did she think she was locking out? What in the world had gotten into her? n.o.body was chasing her. The only thing that was out there was her good friend Charlie-Charlie with his self-deprecating humor and offbeat reading habits, Charlie who had accepted her story about the crow when n.o.body else would believe her. Just because she and Charlie had gotten to be buddies didn't mean that she had to take everything he said seriously.
Charlie was not Giles Corey! That idea was ludicrous! The weight problem he was so concerned about and couldn't seem to conquer was not symbolic of anything other than his basic anatomy, which was evidently different from his parents', and a pa.s.sion for milk shakes!
As she took off her jacket and flung it onto the coat tree, she became conscious of the sound of the television, something she was unaccustomed to hearing in the daytime. When she went into the living room she found her mother seated on the sofa, with coffee cup in hand and an open box of doughnuts on her lap, staring at the screen. She looked as if she were mesmerized.
”What are you watching?” Sarah asked her.
Rosemary glanced up, startled.
”Oh, hi, honey! I didn't hear you come in. It's just one of those silly talk shows.”
”Since when do you watch those?”
”I've just recently started,” her mother said. ”Actually they're kind of amusing. These women on this panel all say they have proof Elvis Presley isn't dead, because at night he crawls in their windows. Poor old Elvis has to be pretty creaky by this time, but he makes it up their gutter spouts! Isn't that hilarious?”
”You wouldn't even consider watching this kind of stuff back home,” Sarah said.