The Eagle and the Rose (20 page)

Hopefully, I pursued this and asked: “What about the tiger? Can you tell me about it?” But she merely repeated again:

“Tell my mummy ‘bout the tiger.” And wriggling her little fingers at me once more, she disappeared as quickly as she had come.

Smiling now and happy, I turned over in bed and cat-napped for another hour before I got up.

My two clients arrived promptly at ten-thirty
A.M
., and as I showed them into the study, it was obvious to me which one was the lady I had spoken to on the telephone. She had that same demanding tone in her voice. In her early thirties, quite attractive, and with long black hair, she looked nothing like the child I had spoken to earlier.

Her friend was quiet—in fact, quite shy—and she also had blond hair.

Now then, I thought, trying to see some similarities between them and my little visitor, I wonder which one is the mother?

Immediately upon sitting down, I spotted the little girl, who was jumping up and down with excitement, pointing to the darker of the two women, saying: “That's my mummy, it is, it is!”

Using that power, that mind energy, with which I communicate with those in the spirit world and looking to Grey Eagle for confirmation, I began. “All right, darling,” I said, laughing, “hold on a minute,” and I began to describe the fairy child who was now waiting so patiently.

“That's her, that's her,” her mother gasped, “that's my Mandy,” and fishing in her handbag, she brought out a photograph, which she handed to me. The photo didn't do justice to the child I had standing before me, but it was obviously the same child.

Smiling encouragement, I said: “All right now, Mandy, what would you like to tell your mummy?”

Pouting and cross with me because she thought I must have forgotten, she admonished: “You haven't told Mummy. You've got to tell Mummy ‘bout the tiger.”

So I explained to Mandy's mother how her daughter had visited me earlier that morning and that she had asked me to talk about “the tiger.”

My client, puzzled by this, shook her head, saying, “I'm sorry, but I don't know what she means.”

Going back to Mandy, I asked gently, “Sweetheart, can you tell me a little more about the tiger so that I can help Mummy to understand?”

But all she would say again was: “Tell my Mummy ‘bout the tiger.”

Now when it comes to dealing with small children, I can have infinite patience, which I needed, as Mandy is a stubborn little girl. Having decided that her mother did know what she was talking about, she refused to reveal any more information, no matter what I said or did. Her mother just became more and more puzzled each time I asked.

“Perhaps Mandy had a toy tiger, or was she perhaps fond of tigers at the zoo?”

Eventually I ran out of ideas, and in desperation I asked Grey Eagle. I should, of course, have asked him sooner.

Chuckling, he said, “It's easy—look.” As in a vision, I was shown a cat, a large tom, with ginger and white stripes. It was the sort of cat a small child might mistake for a tiger.

“Tell Mandy's mother what you see,” continued my guide, “and then ask if she has seen one this morning, early, at about six-thirty
A.M
.”

When I relayed all of this information to Mandy's mother, I really thought at first that she was going to faint.

Then, slowly, tears began to trickle down her face, and in a voice barely above a whisper, she said: “My Mandy really is alive. She really can see me after all.

“I got up early this morning,” she went on, “because I had such a lot to do, what with getting the boys off to school and one thing and another. The milkman had just been when I came down the stairs, so I went out to fetch the milk in. Just as I stepped out of the door a cat shot straight under my feet. It came out of nowhere and I almost went flying. It was a huge thing with ginger and white stripes, and now I come to mention it, Mandy's right… it did look just like a little tiger.”

Mandy, now very pleased with herself because she had been right and her mummy did, after all, know about the tiger, went on to tell me many more things.

Her favorite topic was her two brothers, both on this side, whom she obviously adored and who, by the sound of things, were real mischiefs. The older of the two was always getting into trouble, and Mandy gleefully related tales of his exploits.

Because she was so young, occasionally I had a little trouble understanding her. One minute she seemed just a baby and the next quite grown-up. But there was no mistaking one statement she made.

She was still talking about her brothers, and as she was describing how they would sit on the floor and draw pictures and swap coloring books, she said: “And they have sweeties, too—and Andrew always has a black mouth—and a black tongue.” And then, in a small conspiratorial whisper, “He loves lick-rish, see, it's his favorite.”

Mandy's mother laughed at this and confirmed that indeed her youngest son adored licorice.

At this point I hadn't yet discovered how Mandy had passed into the spirit world, and I didn't want to upset the child by asking her. But Grey Eagle, realizing that this information was necessary for Mandy's mother, gave me all the details.

It had happened on a warm summer's day, and Mandy had been playing outside on the path near her house. Her mother had repeatedly warned her not to go on the road, but on this day the temptation was too great.

She heard the familiar tinkling of the ice-cream van as it came round the corner, and in her excitement, she forgot her mother's warning.

“Ice cream,” she squealed delightedly, and raced out into the road.

The driver of the car didn't stand a chance of avoiding her, and Mandy was killed instantly.

Mandy's mother confirmed all of this, and now sobbing, she told me of the guilt and self-recriminations she had had since her daughter's death—and how she had gone from medium to medium in a desperate search for evidence of Mandy's survival.

“I haven't known a moment's peace,” she said, “until now, and I have come up against so many blank walls trying to find the truth.”

I smiled and asked: “Just what was it that has been said this morning that has finally convinced you that your Mandy has survived death?”

She answered without hesitation and with no more doubts left in her mind: “The tiger.”

Such a trivial but oh so significant piece of evidence. But such was the power of this evidence that it brought real peace to Mandy's mother and a true understanding that life really does continue on.

Mandy's mother could now rest easy, knowing that her daughter was indeed alive and safe.

But for me, the most important thing was that Mandy was finally content. She had her family back… and they knew it.

Mary

S
o far, throughout this case book, each story has shown the will and determination of those in the spirit world, of their need and perseverance to communicate. This next story reveals a woman's singleness of purpose as she determines to reach the husband and children she so sadly had to leave.

She came through in a session with a client named Doreen Abrams. Doreen was a familiar face, and this was her third sitting.

Looking to Grey Eagle, as I always do, I began, “I have a lady standing beside me, and although I can't see her very clearly I am having no difficulty whatsoever in hearing her. Her name, she tells me, is Mary, and she has explained that she passed, quite recently, with cancer.”

Doreen shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said, “I'm afraid it doesn't mean anything at all to me.”

But there it was again, very clear and very precise.

“My name is Mary, and I passed with cancer. I'm her neighbor, Doreen's neighbor. Tell her I've been watching her these last two days going backward and forward, from her house to mine, climbing over the fence.”

“But it can't be,” said a startled Doreen as I passed on the message. “It can't be
that
Mary, my neighbor Mary, because, well, she only died three days ago. It won't be her, Rosemary, surely. She couldn't do it so quickly … could she?”

By “it” Doreen had meant that she didn't think Mary would be able to communicate through a medium so soon. For some strange reason she thought, like many people, that those in the spirit world had to have passed at least six months, if not longer, before being able to form any kind of communication link.

Mary had shown her that this just wasn't so. Some folk take years before they feel ready to make themselves known, usually through a medium, after they have passed. Others manage within hours, and a few, for reasons of their own, just won't do it at all.

Poor Doreen had a hard time at first accepting that her next-door neighbor, whose funeral she was going to the next day, could actually make contact in such a short time. Then bewilderment turned to amazement as Mary continued with her messages.

She mentioned her two daughters—Joanne, who was thirteen years old, and Rachel, ten years old—naturally showing tremendous concern because they were crying so much. At one point I asked Doreen: “Who's Martin? Mary mentions Martin, and whoever he is she loves him dearly.”

Martin, I was told by Doreen, was Mary's husband.

“And send my love to Mike, and tell him I'm fine now, will you?” Mary continued.

Mike was Martin's brother, and they were very close.

Several times during this sitting links were made with members of Doreen's own family. Her father and brother both came through quite clearly, but they were interrupted again and again by Mary. She was desperate to let her family know that she had, very definitely, survived death.

Eventually Mary's interruptions became impossible to ignore, and I told Doreen so.

“It's just no good, I don't seem able to quiet her. So would you mind, Doreen, if we give Mary more time?”

Now this might sound, to some of you, a strange thing to ask, but you have to remember that Doreen had come to see me in the hope of getting in touch with
her
family. And here we had her next-door neighbor, who seemed to be taking over the whole show, not allowing anyone else to say more than a few words before chipping in herself.

Doreen, a lovely lady with a kind and generous nature, understood perfectly. “If that were me,” she said, “I would be doing just the same. I would want my family to know how I was, and that I had made it over all right.”

So from then on Mary had the floor, and she talked constantly about her family, telling me how they were coping with their loss.

“They're not doing very well, and I know that if Doreen would let Martin hear the tape, both he and the family will feel much better.”

On every visit to me Doreen has always recorded her sittings, and this time was no exception. But at the suggestion that she should let her neighbor listen to her tape, Doreen shook her head.

“Oh, no, I don't think so, I really don't think I could do that. I don't think I know him well enough for that,” she replied.

Not put off by this in the least, Mary continued. Switching away from her family, she told me that before her passing, her husband had done some alterations to the kitchen.

“He put all new cupboards in,” she said, “and a new floor as well. It looks beautiful, and I was really pleased when it was finished. But we need a bread bin, tell Martin, will you? It's important. The kitchen won't be properly finished until he gets the bread bin.”

After the sitting was over, Doreen and I talked for a little while, and she asked me what I would do about the tape if I were her.

I explained that in my experience, if someone in spirit makes a request such as this, it is not a request made lightly.

“I am sure,” I went on, “that Mary would never ask you to do or say anything to her family which might harm or cause them upset in any way. You have to remember, Doreen, that Mary knows Martin very much better than you do. And all I can tell you is that it is important to Mary.

“But,” I added, “if you feel that you just don't want to get involved, then you must not allow either Mary or me to influence you in any way.”

Doreen left my house that day in a very pensive mood, and her final words to me as she went out of the door were: “I'll have to think about it. I'll listen to the tape when I get home, and then I will decide what to do.”

Later that same day Doreen phoned me, very excited and pleased with herself. She explained that after listening to the tape, she sat, debating in her own mind what she should do. Then, suddenly, and for reasons she could not explain, she took her courage in both hands. Grabbing the tape recorder and climbing over the fence, as Mary had described her doing, she knocked on her neighbor's door.

Martin, a tall slim man in his late thirties, smiled a welcome as he let Doreen in and showed her through to the sitting room. She sat on the edge of the chair that Martin had offered, wondering where to begin, what to say first. When she noticed Martin's curious glances toward her tape recorder, she took a deep breath and began.

“I suppose, Martin, you must be wondering why I've come, and what I've brought the tape recorder for. Well, you see, it's like this,” and she gave him Mary's messages, suggesting that he should hear the tape.

His face completely expressionless, Martin nodded his agreement. “I don't suppose,” he said, “that there can be any harm in listening, can there?”

Doreen shakily set up the machine, but just as she was about to switch it on, in walked Martin's brother, Mike.

Martin explained briefly to Mike what was happening and asked him to stay and listen.

For the next hour the two brothers sat with Doreen, quite still and not saying a word. The only sound in the room was the voice of a stranger talking of things that not even friends of Martin's family knew.

Every so often Doreen would glance furtively across at the two men, hoping for some indication of their reaction to what they were hearing. But both sat perfectly still, their faces giving away nothing at all.

Then came Mary's last message, conveyed, of course, through me:

“Please, Doreen, give my love to Martin and the girls. Tell them I'm all right, and that I have survived.”