The Second Son

It’s a crisp Saturday afternoon in June when I find myself climbing from my truck into a quiet Brisbane suburban street. The sun barely takes the edge off the air and I hesitate long enough to pull my hoody on before venturing up the driveway of the nondescript house.

The place is so inconspicuous that had I not been told to keep an eye out for the white Toyota in the drive I’d have driven straight past it. In fact I did drive past to make a u-turn, but even then I caught myself wondering whether I had the right place. It’s odd.

I am looking at the house.

I can SEE the house.

But it’s like it doesn’t WANT me to see.

I scoot around the Toyota and rap chilled knuckles on the screen door. Beyond the threshold I see the collapsible massage table draped sheets and pillows. So this is where the magick happens, I muse.

My percussion driven enquiry is replied to with an enthusiastic head popping around the corner from an adjacent room.

“Just a sec,” she says before disappearing again to the scrape of a chair across the floor. “Did you find it ok? Most people drive past.” She sweeps into the room and lets me in

Smaller and younger than I imagined, Cass introduces herself and leads me to her dining table, catching my lingering gaze at the massage table as we leave it behind.

“Take a seat, I don’t really do much kinesiology with adults, it’s more intuitive healing. We have a chat, Identify the problem and then guide you back to the source, usually something from a past life. But if we need to get you on the table we can.”

“No, that’s cool. I’ve had kinesiology before and it was awesome, but I am always open to a new experience.”

We chat a bit more as Cass explains her method and what I should expect. “Some people freak when confronted with the core problem, so I just don’t want you to be surprised if emotions start running away.”

“Oh, I’m pretty attuned to what’s holding me back at the moment, that being said I am open to whatever we find. Have a very open mind.”

“Ok, cool.” She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. I do likewise as she instructs me to get comfortable. Only seconds pass before she starts talking.

“You have a strong sense of not being good enough. You know you can do things,  but you let this feeling hold you back from stepping into your power.”

“Yep, that resonates,” I reply. “I have this sort of discussion with my partner all the time. What’s she told you about me?” I laugh.

“Nothing in this regard,” she smiles. “We haven’t been conspiring.”

I open my eyes as Cass shifts in her seat. “Ok, now I am going to walk you through a guided meditation. We’re going to go back to the lifetime that is the source of this feeling. Are you ready?”

“Go for it.”

I close my eyes and sink down into the chair, my head lolling to one side until my chin drops down onto my chest.

Her words are hypnotic. I have come here just for that, so I have allowed myself to be hypnotised.

Images flash before my eyes as I follow her instructions.

Rapid fire scenes of people throughout the world in their day to day lives. The scenes pause long enough for a blonde to look back over her shoulder and laugh at me. Then on again in a cascade of revelry and tears as the spectrum of human existence unfurls before my eyes

“Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring.” …

Her words sweep me away. Hers, not Stoker’s. And yet there is some credence to the reference, for after leading me into this state she breaks off from the guidance.

“I see an opulent chamber. It’s somewhere in the 1400’s.”

Well it’s 1447, actually and this is an Ottoman solar. I catch myself. Where the fuck did that come from?

“Oh wow, you are a crowned prince, 18 or 19, around that age.”

A prince I may be, but this isn’t my home. I see myself, dressed in Ottoman refinery with my jet black hair freshly combed, standing before a young Turk much the same age as me. But there is little of pleasantness that passes between us.

I notice I am tenderly rubbing at the raw manacle marks on my wrists. To my right my younger brother sits amongst cushions, dressed and made up like some harem whore.

The sight of him alone is enough to set my blood boiling.

“You are readying to petition your father for permission to marry, but know that such a request will be difficult.” She pauses, trying to lever the information from unwilling currents. “It’s difficult and frowned upon to marry a low born woman.”

Even more so when she’s a lowborn Turk and the only reason you are doing it is to get out of this God forsaken land.

“But you are dealt a blow when you are informed your father has been killed. You aren’t ready for this. You can’t fathom that the mantel should fall to you. This isn’t how it is supposed to be. You aren’t ready for this. How can you be?”

No. Because if I am in line for the throne, it means my older brother has been slain too. I know of no current wars. Yes the political games play out behind tightly monitored borders and in the bed chambers of sycophant boyars, but open battle?

No.

That means they have been murdered.

Betrayed.

She pulls me from the scene and I doubt whether she realises I was so embedded. That I knew what was unfurling before her words slipped past her lips.

She guides me further through halls and stairways, common imagery in many guided meditations, yet with her own flavour of delivery.

At the foot of a long flight of stairs I come to a blue door. Cass instructs me to open it.

But there’s more to this than she has articulated, for seated at a desk beside the door is a bearded man. His dark fringe splits in disarray to reveal amber eyes peering out from golden flesh. In one hand he holds a quill and in the other a single sheet of parchment.

He regards me for a moment, drops the sheet and holds out his hand with an impatient gesture. I blink and realise I too hold parchment, three in fact. I glance at them and shuffle until I can pass him the second sheet.

He looks over the paper, which appears to have nothing written on it, then signs off on it with the quill, leaving no trace of ink.

As I reach for the door I glance back. I am by no means a religious man, so it surprises me that I should have come across Jesus like this.

He gives me an impatient smile to send me on my way.

The door swings open and Cass’ guidance echoes around an expansive chamber within a pyramid. Golden light beams down onto a stone altar in the middle of the chamber. She guides me to run my fingers over the glyphs etched into the granite.

“You see your past self enter from the opposite side of the chamber as he comes forth to ask your forgiveness.”

Her voice slips away as he enters.

He moves forward with the grace and ease of a serpent. Fitting really. After all, he was The Son of the Dragon. At the foot of the dais he drops to one knee, head bowed. I tentatively reach out to him, cupping his stubbled chin in the palm of my hand.

His dark eyes rise to meet mine.

Tears well for both of us.

“I did not mean for all this to be.” His words are English, yet accented strongly towards Eastern Europe.

“I know.” I nod with understanding. “We are as one.” And with those words a sea of imagery flashes through my minds eye. Forests of Beech, Spruce and Oak. Then even denser forests of poles with impaled bodies, men, women and children. An ocean of screams floods my ears.

“Forgive my sins.”

“Few accept you for who you truly are,” I reply. “You did what needed be done.”

The understanding and acceptance breaks his demeanour and he lets out a cry and in that moment it is a young child’s chin I hold in my hand. The boy sobs with fear and relief. I move to embrace him and his tiny arms grip me as fiercely as a grown man.

“Ok, you are going to come back now,” Cass chimes. The boy turns to smoke in my embrace and the chamber fades. I open my eyes to find myself once again sitting in Cass’ dining room. She smiles at me, “Wow.”