The Third Personality: A Novel (28)

CASSADAGA, Florida - The New Age had arrived - and George and Constance Boyd finally decided they'd ride its wave into the Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp. This time very close to seriously.

Cassadaga - home of the Southeast's largest Spiritualist community, a century-old, 35-acre development by and for mediums some 25 miles southwest of Daytona, near the town of Deland and its Southern Baptist university, Stetson - home of the Hatters.

George and Constance were, in fact, Stetson grads who, back in the 60s as students, occasionally got drunk during Halloween and rode out to Cassadaga with friends to cruise up and down its streets in their cars making woo-wooing noises - sort of like cartoonish ghosts might. The idea was to antagonize its resident psychics, clairvoyants, mediums, and healers into feeling stupid.

It seldom worked. Most of Cassadaga's residents knew, even back then, that All Hallow's Eve was a good night to drive to the Atlantic coast beach town of Daytona and, say, take in a movie.

Most of the time when George, Constance and their chums made their gurgling, intoxicated groanings, or pulled down their pants and stuck their fannies out of the car windows, they performed their dopey sound effects in front of (and mooned) empty structures.

But that was then. The Boyds were now approaching … maturity.

Thanks to Shirley MacLaine's books and movies it was also an "in thing" to go get a reading from a so-called channeler - a contemporized cosmic edition of a trance medium. The Boyds were eyeballing a new investment they wanted to get some inside information on before they spent their money. So who better to seek a "second opinion" from than a psychic-channeler-medium/whatever?

They already knew what their stockbroker thought about it.

As the couple pulled off of County Road 4139 from Lake Helen (the northern and more difficult of the two routes out of Deland) and parked beside the Andrew Jackson Davis Building, which housed the Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp Bookstore & Information Center, George turned off the ignition key. He then looked at his wife.

"I really feel dumb doing this," he confided. "Don't you?"

Constance jostled a pile of Cassadaga literature in her lap in an attempt to put it in some kind of order, and then shrugged.

"A little," she replied distantly. "So what. We're here."

"So. We can drive back out the way we came in," he said.

Constance laughed. "You almost got us lost in Lake Helen."

"I'll drive out the other way. The interstate's closer - I missed it the first time. We could be back in Orlando by 3 p.m."

"Great, George. And what are we supposed to do back home on a Saturday afternoon. Wasn't boredom one reason we came?"

George gazed dully at his wife. "I don't know why we came."

"Phooey," Constance smirked, opening her passenger door. "We came up here to get enlightened. Let's fucking get enlightened."

The Boyds walked side-by-side down a thin road named Stevens Street and passed by what Constance's brochure identified as the Colby Memorial Temple, where Sunday's Spiritualist church service would be held. Right in front of that grandfatherly building was a small octagonal-shaped enclosed building, which George studied curiously as the couple walked slowly past.

"That's the Caesar Forman Healing Center," Constance told him, reading aloud from her Southern Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp Meeting Association pamphlet.

"Ah, a massage," nodded George. "We can stop by there after we hear this trance channeler of yours, Mrs. What's-her-name."

"It's closed today," Constance read. "Further, according to this, Missis is the woman's first name, not her married title."

"Oh, sure," George said with a laugh. "That's believable."

"'Missis P-period Marston,'" Constance responded, pointing. "That's what the doohickey here says."

"Mm. Wonder what the P. stands for," George said vaguely, squinting over at the pamphlet.

"Doesn't say," said Constance.

"Doesn't say," repeated George. "So, how was it, again, you selected Missis Whoeversheis here to be our financial advisor?"

Constance stopped walking, and stared at her husband. "Now, look, let's get past this, George. Does it really matter? - no. But I chose her, if you must know, because she's the only veteran trance channeler here who didn't start out as a Spiritualist."

George stared back. "But isn't this a Spiritualists' camp?"

"Yes," said Constance wearily. "And she's been credentialed by these people, which means somebody perceives her to be legit. But all the big name channelers - J.Z. Knight and Ramtha, Jach Pursel and Lazaris, Pat Rodegast and Emmanuel, Penny Torres Rubin and Mafu, Kevin Ryerson and all of his guides - and you can toss in that A Course in Miracles woman, Edgar Cayce, and Jane Roberts - and what you find, is that none of those people…"

"Or their entities," George interrupted sarcastically.

"…Or their entities," Constance glowered, "ever had anything, what-so-ever, to do with … the goddamned Spiritualists!"

George grinned at his wife as her words echoed off of a nearby house. He then noticed a fat lazy squirrel retreating up a tree.

"Hope the locals aren't credentialed Scanners too," he said, referring to a film in which psychics blew people up by thinking.

The Boyds were big sci fi movie goers. George was, anyway.

Constance walked over to him, a snigger forming on one lip. "If I were a Scanner, sweetie," she whispered," your head would already be just so much exploded mush."

"So - which one is Missis Marston's?" George asked a few houses further down Stevens Street. On one side of the road were quaint, numbered cottages, some with the names of their residents printed on porch signs - while on the other side was a downward-sloping lawn called Seneca Park, which culminated in a tiny lake called Spirit Pond. Adjacent to the lake was a shaded open-air structure called the Mae Graves Ward Gazebo.

"It's lovely here," Constance decided, her agitation lifted. "The gazebo down there looks like the one in The Sound of Music."

"Happiest damned squirrels I've ever seen," George conceded.

"There," said Constance, pointing at a far cottage.

On its porch was a sign: MISSIS P. MARSTON.

George reached for his wife and grasped her arm before she was able to run to the picket fence gate in front of the cottage.

Constance paused, and turned. "What," she said.

"The deal is this," George began firmly. "At the first sign of funny business - we're out of here. Agreed?"

"Define funny business," she said, holding back a laugh.

"Weirdo. Wacko. Wino," said George. "You know the drill."

Constance grinned, and nodded. "Okay," she said. "Agreed."

The 60-plus-year-old-woman, who let the couple in through a screened-in porch into her electric fan-cooled cottage, walked silently behind the Boyds as she pointed them to her dining room table. She then grabbed a television remote and aimed it at her small TV, where a rerun of the sitcom, Good Times, was being televised. Jimmie Walker, who played the son, J.J., on the show, was just about to yelp his signature line, "Dy-no-mite!" - when their host blinked off the picture, and put down her remote.

Missis Marston then joined the Boyds at the table.

"I'm dying to know - what's the P. stand for," George blurted, breaking the silence.

"I'm originally from Laurinburg, North Carolina," the woman responded. "Now if I may - after I take your thirty-five dollars; I accept credit cards - let me say something about the nature of the personalities, shall we say, who speak through me when I go into trance. Have either of you ever had a reading like this?"

Constance shrugged and nodded while George pulled a 20, a 10 and a 5 out of his wallet and handed them to the woman. Popular channeler J.Z. Knight, George mused briefly, at least was a babe (he'd seen her on one of Constance's recent rented videos). But this woman here reminded him more of a … Witch.

"Among the personalities who speak through me - think of me as a radio receiver receiving transmissions rather than a body into which some non-physical intelligence invades, and takes over - that never happens," Missis P. Marston explained. " - …some of my personalities have experienced physical incarnations, while others have not. Anyway. You needn't worry." She then smiled. "None of them bite."

"How many different personalities have spoken through you?" Constance asked.

"Twelve or so," the Marston woman explained, fiddling with a pen that had been lying adjacent to a blank open notepad.

"Or so?" asked George.

"Various personalities come and go," she said. "Sometimes a new one will come along. I've no way of telling. Mostly, though, they tell me that they're drawn to the vibrations of my specific clients. Everyone's vibrations are distinct, you know. Unique."

"What's the notepad for," George wondered.

"On rare occasions, a personality will choose to communicate something to either the client or me through automatic writing," the channeler said. "I'm adept at receiving such messages, too."

George and Constance then only managed to gape at her.

"Well, then - shall we begin?" Missis Marston smiled. "The sessions usually last around half an hour, that's about my body's limit - and of course you may ask any questions you like. But I'd like to request that you remain briefly, until I return from trance. The transition is jarring, and I like to get feedback."

"You don't listen in, then?" Constance said.

"Oh, no," the woman said, shaking her head. "I'd rather not know what went on - it's always so personal. But with feedback, it's a way I can gauge and evaluate my efforts."

"I see," said Constance.

George nodded, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," began the older woman, rolling her shoulders. "I'll close my eyes for ten to twenty seconds. Then - it's show time."

"Show time," parroted Constance, blinking.

George sat back stiffly and crossed his arms over his chest.

Then he uncrossed his arms. Then he crossed them again.

Constance blinked some more. George gulped, then frowned.

What so few of Mrs. Marston's clients realized was just how sincerely she took her work, she reflected quietly while calming her mind. When an entity "went wrong" - Yam, back in Laurinburg was an example - it was never Mrs. Marston trying to "pull one over" on somebody, like that raving Agatha-woman implied that last day in her church - which Mrs. Marston, after all, had founded.

Nor was it delusion, either - any more than it was fraud.

It was the entity. Always, it was the entity.

The source of the transmission. Not the receiver.

And what she'd come to believe was that certain tricksters occasionally spoke through her, drawn by the frivolous (and maybe at times deceitful) nature of a scattered few of her clients.

Mrs. Marston, as a result, seldom knew who might "pop up out of the woodwork," as she put it, while in a trance. But nothing awful ever happened - and she wasn't paid to be The Entity Police.

Shortly after she'd closed her eyes at the kitchen table (as the Boyds sat silently across from her), Mrs. Marston released in her mind's eye the equivalent of a fluffy, imploding inward sigh.

Once she'd reached her deeply restful spot within - not as deep as sleep, or her out-of-body elevator, as she'd called it - her trance channeling process actually began. Mrs. Marston then pictured herself safely in The Void, out of which she began light easy backwards hand-springings, over … and … over, which took her deeper, and then deeper. She stayed awake, yes; but went deeper.

...... And then deeper.

............... And ever deeper.

......................... And (then -)

............................................. (Show time.)

* * * * *

When Mrs. Marston came out of her deep trance she was alone.

George and Constance Boyd were gone.

All she heard were her wind chimes tinkling from the porch.

Glancing around, she called out their names. Nothing. Mrs. Marston then realized the Boyds must've gotten up … and left.

(...Left? Why?)

She looked at her clock. Only 12 minutes had elapsed.

Something must have happened during her trance.

(Was a message received? Was something said?)

Then Mrs. Marston glanced over at her notepad.

"PICK YOURSELF UP A SET OF KNEEPADS FOR TOMORROW'S SERVICE," a large, sprawling message read over five pages in her notebook. "GOOD ONES. PUT THEM ON. AND WEAR SLACKS," it concluded.

Some of the curves in the script ran off of the notepad's pages - which had apparently been hurriedly flipped over one after the other; and the words, kneepads, Good, and slacks were underlined.

(...Kneepads?!)

The last page - page five - posed a signature, of sorts.

There were two large-case letters, with their tops joined by a long horizontal line - like fishhooks dangling from a string.

"J.J.," was all it read.

Mrs. Marston was the scheduled pastor for Sunday's service.

* * * * *

Soft, crisply cool sunlight filtered in through the front entrance to Cassadaga's Colby Memorial Temple late Sunday morning when Tawker Hunt, a mere "kid-like" 22, casually sauntered inside. She'd performed a Full Physical Manifestation on this, her first-ever voyage into America's past (as part of her performance thesis for her chancellor's degree, the equivalent of a triple doctorate). But she was also fighting back the giggles. The physical sensations of 1987 Florida were palpable; and she was excited, too, about making her first parallel time jump. But she wanted to blend in. And she was so nervous she wouldn't, she got giggly. Only six other time travelers had conducted limited voyages back prior to now (Tawker's time of origin). Five had voyaged many times each, without incident.

The only one who hadn't was Annuh Larsen's future husband, Harrild St. Pierre - who'd panicked back in 2049, "got lost," and slipped into a coma for nearly six years.

The rules, on this occasion, were really simple: Tawker was to engage no one - no one - in any manner of meaningful contact.

A forgettable nod; a diffuse vacuous smile - they were okay.

Don't talk, don't make steady eye contact - and whatever else happens, don't let anyone see you write or print, especially your name. These suspicious Chaucerians would not be charmed.

Tawker was on hand merely to observe; to listen to the minor historical supporting personage - "supporting actor," as she'd later come to label such an individual - who'd soon be speaking onstage in this diverting (but otherwise highly marginal) historical event; and, of course, to approximately experience the sensation of Full Physicality.

(Which so far was spectacular! Oh, how she wanted to laugh!)

And as this was going to be her life's work - Tawker wanted to "get good" at every phase of this type of activity. She would get good, too. (No one ever accused Tawker Hunt of complacency!)

Someone handed her a church service program. She took it - without managing to drop it ... (She realized she wouldn't be able to hold on to it for very long, however.)

Then Tawker noticed a few older women standing near the large open Cassadaga registry book.

She glanced their way, and one of them glanced back. Tawker then quickly, brightly, looked about as if searching for someone. Knowingly, she ambled toward one of the permanent back row seats, where she "let go" of her program.

But before she could begin to sit down and blend in - she walked toward a back wall curtain, hid her face … and snickered.

Very quietly; and as best as she was able, inconspicuously.

* * * * *

This morning's program, decorated in sketches of flowers and butterflies, paid homage to the following verse by Leo Buscaglia:

"Because I am Human, there are so many wonderful things I can do…
I can smell a flower
I can hold hands
I can believe in unicorns
I can smile
I can feel happy
I can hug
I can kiss someone
I can think happy thoughts
I can LOVE"

Seated up on the stage, awaiting completion of the morning's devotional, was "Missis P. Marston," attired in a white flowered blouse, black slacks (with generous hip allowances), and skate-boarding-styled kneepads - which Mrs. Marston acquired only the night before from the nearby K-Mart - wrapped about both knees.

For most of those in the audience (excluding the few who knew the woman well, and the innocuous visitor from 2069 Plymouth, Massachusetts, Tawker Hunt), the kneepads appeared to be corrective supports prescribed by a doctor for, say, swollen kneecaps.

Or something.

Regardless, this was Cassadaga, after all - and as the old promotional slogan for the Florida Department of Tourism used to boast, "the rules are different here."

As the rendering of the final verse to, Isn't It Wonderful (page 128 in the Spiritualist Hymnal) was winding down: "..Isn't it won-der-ful what Spir-it can do? Oh, is-n't it won-der-ful so per-fect and true. That life so glo-ri-ous re-veal-eth the might, For ev-er-more vic-to-ri-ous in e-ter-nal light.," Mrs. Marston stood up from her chair and advanced to the podium's microphone.

For a moment she paused to say a silent prayer, and then she affably and humbly gazed around the room at the (routinely) small gathering seated before her.

Mrs. Marston adored the sweet gentility of her new church.

"Hello," she began with a smile. "Isn't this a lovely day?"

Some of those in the congregation nodded and smiled back.

Three youthful-looking women seated together on one side of the small auditorium held their arms in the air with their palms upturned, ostensibly to grant greater access to causal energies.

"My message this day shall come from Spirit - no surprise there!" said Mrs. Marston with a chuckle, removing the microphone from its short fixed stand on the podium. "So if you'll grant me just a moment or two to calm and to center - Spirit has asked to address you."

The channeler then returned to her chair, sat, released some pursed air gently through her lips, and closed her eyes. She let her chest and midriff settle then, and rested her hands above her knees. One hand lightly grasped the cordless microphone.

For some ten seconds, then, there was nothing but silence inside the Colby Memorial Temple.

Then Mrs. Marston, as someone else altogether, stood up, and began to address the congregation after briefly taking its stock.

"Praise be!" a far deeper, louder, and bolder voice uttered gutterally from within the channeler's mouth. "Praise be to God! Praise be to the Temple! - the People's Temple!"

Mrs. Marston, then, as whoever-she-was, strutted over to the podium and stood next to it, with one arm casually resting on its slanted top. The personality speaking through her was very male.

"I bring you greetings from the Beyond you refer to, now, as the Afterlife," the voice from within Mrs. Marston proudly stated into the microphone tilted in her hand.

Then the personality speaking through her abruptly fell onto Mrs. Marston's knees, lifted its arms ceilingward and proclaimed, "…It's the physical world! - I'm alive! Praise be to God!"

Several members of the congregation began turning toward one another with frowns on their faces. Something wasn't right here.

Mrs. Marston's presence then jumped back up on her feet, and ostentatiously leaped from the elevated stage onto the floor, in front of a pair of startled visitors - whose hands the presence now confidently reached out for and held like soft flower petals.

"Ladies!" the presence smiled, lightly massaging both pairs of hands, "welcome to my Temple!" Then "he" fell onto Mrs. Marston's knees and looked up at the women. A huge smile formed on his/her lips.

The elderly visitors, seated in front of the channeler, now appeared confused - somewhere between charmed, and horrified.

"My name is The Reverend Jim Jones," he said to them softly, adding a manly wink. "Welcome to the new People's Temple!"

Amid the chaotic uproar of suddenly-standing members of the congregation darting about this way and that in a loud, startled frenzy, the presence within Mrs. Marston appeared to be enjoying the reaction his/her admission created around him/her.

Only one person remained relaxed and seated amid all of the unexpected upheaval. And she was focused, as if lost in thought.

Tawker Hunt, in fact, began scribbling a note to herself on her church service program (in part to see if she could do it), moving her feet occasionally to allow one person or another to pass into (or out of) her row of seats.

Meanwhile, up front, Mrs. Marston, now seated on the lip of the stage, returned from her trance and appeared stunned at the sight of all of the outraged, accusatory hubbub going on before her.

What just happened here?! said Mrs. Marston's expression.

Tawker, meanwhile, was so impressed, and inspired, by this (heretofore inaccurately recorded) minor historical event, she'd decided she needed to honor it in some way, in her own life.

Moreover - this was, after all, her first-ever physical voyage into time; and only the sixteenth ever undertaken by anybody!

She knew she'd be taking many more; especially after this!

Only two individuals in Cassadaga's church this day knew the real first name of Mrs. Marston, which began with the letter P.

One of them was Mrs. Marston. The other was Tawker Hunt.

On a whim, and to canonize her experience, Tawker jotted:

grayt naym for mye noo pet pig!!

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