Claiming Her. Marilyn "Mattie" Brahen

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      Claiming Her

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2003 by Marilyn “Mattie” Brahen.

      Cover art © 2003 by L.W. Perkins.

      All rights reserved.

      * * * *

      Various excerpts by Hermann Hesse, from Siddhartha, Copyright © 1951 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation (U.S. and Canadian rights).

      * * * *

      Brief extracts by Hermann Hesse, from Siddhartha, by Peter Owen Limited, Publisher, and Suhrkampf Verlag, Proprietor. Permission to reprint granted by Pollinger Limited, London (U.K. and Commonwealth rights).

      * * * *

      Published by:

      Wildside Press

      www.wildsidepress.com

      DEDICATION

      To Ray Bradbury, friend, extraordinary writer, mentor and benefactor of Mr. Electrico’s blessings. Your encouragement and faith in me are my blessings.

      To Hannah M.G. Shapero, friend, artist, my first reader and surprise copy-editor, whose father, Harold Shapero, is a composer of classical music. Thanks for helping me portray Terence in a more realistic fashion.

      To Ben Jeapes, friend and writer, whose editorial guidance was both brilliant and gentle with understanding and insight.

      To Lynn W. Perkins, friend, artist and encourager, whose superb cover illuminates Claiming Her.

      To my father, Irvin Wm. Brahen, my mother, Sarah Snyder, and my sister and brother-in-law, Michelle and Larry McHugh. They helped me to stay grounded in the real world, while building my creative ones.

      To my son, Brian Octaviano and his family for teaching me that youth need not always follow in the parents’ footsteps, as Hermann Hesse’s novel, Siddhartha, so eloquently expresses.

      To my friends, Linda and Ron Bushyager, for your “tech support” and your loving generosity. And to the Philadelphia SF, F & H Writer’s Workshop, many thanks.

      With much love to my husband, Darrell Schweitzer, who helps me to control the fictional worlds that bang at the doors and windows of my mind, asking to be let out, who insists that they (and I) be patient, while properly shaping them.

      A creative life is sometimes a river flowing onward. It is sometimes a railway station, where you sit dejectedly, thinking you have missed your train, but there is always another train. And so I thank Elizabeth Counihan, editor of Scheherazade magazine, for suggesting I send Claiming Her to Ben Jeapes, and I thank Ben himself for having faith in the novel and me and helping me to make it the best it could be. And I thank John Betancourt of Wildside Press, my publisher, for being there for me.

      This novel is dedicated to all of you with much love.

      CHAPTER 1

      I developed, early on, psychic powers, becoming a spiritual medium in a world that seems afraid not of death, but of life after death.

      I met many non-mortal people, seeing them in dreams, sensing them while awake, people whom I had to pretend weren’t there, weren’t real.

      But when he came back to claim me in this lifetime, I was twenty-three, ignorant of my spiritual past, and psychically naive, for all that I thought I knew.

      I had just given birth to my son seven weeks before, in the cold gloom of mid-January, 1971, and still felt extremely sore. Daniel, a strong but cranky baby, had finally quieted down enough that afternoon to take his nap. I took advantage of his sudden silence to also lie down and rest. Thoroughly exhausted, I drifted into twilight sleep, wafting in and out of consciousness, my body numb, as if I’d been drugged and anchored to the bed.

      It was then that I felt a dark presence, a brooding mind seeking my acknowledgment, yet deliberately cloaking his identity from me. I knew the presence to be male; he projected a possessive sensuousness towards me which was distinctly and proudly masculine.

      I couldn’t visualize him. He kept that well-hidden. I struggled to wake up, fighting the power he emanated. My mind came awake, but my flesh still failed me, woodenly immobile against the cool sheet.

      I sank back into sleep for what seemed a scant few minutes then truly awakened.

      Rising easily now, I found my body mysteriously healed, the soreness and aches conspicuously gone.

      I checked on Daniel. He slept on, his small chest rising and falling evenly with each tiny breath, a cherub with dark brown hair and eyes, his skin smooth and golden-peach, having none of the blotchiness so common among infants.

      The dream disturbed me. I knew the dark presence had been real, invading my awareness, briefly controlling my psyche, and then releasing me.

      At first I wondered if it had been Terence, up to his old tricks. A mischievous British spirit with long blond hair and pale blue eyes, he had been in my life as guide and friend for three years now. Yet all my instincts told me it had not been Terence, but a personality distinct from any spiritual being I had known.

      I made a cup of coffee and sat sipping it, while Daniel still napped.

      I had married his father one year ago. Terence had been wary of the match, but I, needing mortal warmth and love as much as the next woman, thought Richard Warren would be the emotional and intellectual companion my love colored him into. How strange that I, who could see so accurately as a clairvoyant, had fallen so far beneath the mark in my mortal judgment.

      Richard and I had dated for two years. I found his sandy red hair—much lighter than my own and richly waved, his startling blue eyes and his slim muscular body extremely attractive. He had been open-minded toward my psychic beliefs and shared my other interests. Terence grumbled throughout this time, but couldn’t pinpoint the reasons for his distrust and reservations toward Richard, and so I discounted his advice. Looking back, I often wondered why the Creator sent me spirit guides, since I so rarely took their advice. I’ve since learned that this response by young Earthly charges is quite common and a constant complaint among guides.

      Richard’s past was glamorous to my unexperienced mind. Although he read and enjoyed learning, he found college boring. He dropped out in his second year and joined the Merchant Marine. He loved being a sailor, becoming rugged and seasoned after three years at sea.

      Although we were both originally from Philadelphia, we met in New York City. Richard had returned there to regain his land legs and further his education, working days as the manager of a sporting goods store and attending NYU at night, working once again towards a degree in engineering. I was five years younger than him, living in the Big Apple for the sheer adventure of it, employed as a typist at a CPA firm and living at the Simmons House, a women’s hotel.

      We were married in a civil ceremony, which only my parents attended, my mother disappointed that we hadn’t let her plan a larger wedding, my father more than happy that we hadn’t and trying to be cordial to Richard, whom he didn’t quite trust to do right by me. Richard’s parents were also not pleased with his marrying me, a non-Catholic; they sent their regrets and excuses and a small cash wedding gift.

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