Lily Dale, New York ca. 1910. Courtesy of The Lily Dale Assembly
“I am sorry to have sounded so dramatic.” Charlotte ushered Maude into a parlor that looked like it hadn’t changed since the cottage was built in the late nineteenth century. Her great-grandmother came to Lily Dale as a child. There was no safer place for a gifted child of color. The house had been passed along in her family, each generation producing an heir with highly developed inner senses. “I do wish you lived closer.”
The
other thing passed through the family was the sense of safety and security felt
in the close-knit community of Lily Dale.
Charlotte remembered well the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s and
what life had been like for people of color before that. Her family and others
like her had always been accepted and respected in Lily Dale, and she seldom
left the gated community.
“No
worries. I was happy to get away from
the shop.” Maude took a seat and reached
for the cup and saucer that sat atop the fine lace tablecloth brushing against
her knee. “So, what have you got to tell
me?”
“Well,
last night I was walking through the woods and I was joined by a woman named
Mary. She was wearing early nineteenth-century
clothes, nothing fancy; she wasn’t a woman of leisure.”
Maude
knew that Charlotte was not talking about a living person, but rather a spirit.
“Do you think she is connected to me?”
“Yes,
I do. She showed me images of the sea, a
small thatched cottage on a remote island, and a red horse pulling a wagon over
a stone bridge. I think she was from
Ireland,” Charlotte told her.
“I
know I have ancestors who came from there, but I never did get around to
finding out anything about them,” Maude told her.
“She
may not be your ancestor, dear.” Charlotte
looked at Maude with eyebrows raised, waiting for her to catch up.
The Leolin Woods in Lily Dale, New York. Photo by Rosanne L. Higgins
“I don’t understand.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized that wasn’t true. “Oh, wait, this woman was somehow connected to Martha.” Maude made no attempt to hush the audible sigh at the end of her statement. A visit to Charlotte usually had something to do with Martha Sloane Quinn, a nineteenth-century physician who had lived in both Buffalo and Lily Dale.
Maude
had come to realize that the research started in graduate school would become
her life’s work. A project analyzing the
ledgers of the Erie County Poorhouse helped complete her doctorate in
anthropology, and had also connected her to Ciara, Patricia and Martha Sloane. When Maude left her career in academia to
open a business with her husband, her connection with the poorhouse and this
family was not severed. She had no idea
that the building where she and her husband Don had started their antique
business (and now lived in as well) only brought her closer to them. As the details of their lives manifested
themselves through dreams and research, Maude’s relationship to this family deepened. With this connection also came the
realization that Maude had some gifts not previously revealed. She could conjure up accurate details from
the past in her dreams. With Charlotte’s
help, she pieced together the clues she received. Between the dreams, historical
research and a few whispering bones from the poorhouse cemetery, Maude began to
understand the lives of the Sloane sisters in the burgeoning city of Buffalo. Orphaned on the journey emigrating from
Ireland, the girls had no choice but to seek refuge in the county almshouse
when they arrived in Buffalo. Each
sister rose above her humble beginnings.
Ciara worked tirelessly to help the poor, Patricia became a teacher, and
Martha a physician.
“What
did this woman have to tell you? Wait a
minute; is she here now?” Maude asked cautiously. The appearance of spirits from her past had
occurred before during visits to Charlotte.
Maude took a few deep breaths to relax and see whether she could sense the presence of
this spirit.
Charlotte
watched as Maude made the effort to connect with this unseen companion, pleased
that she was open to the experience.
After a few minutes, the blank look on her face indicated that Maude’s
effort was unsuccessful. Charlotte then
answered her question. “Yes, she is here
now.”
“How
does that work, exactly? How can this
woman, whom I have never met, know to contact me through you?” Maude was asking partly out of curiosity and
partly to delay further communication with the woman named Mary.
“The
love connection is boundless; it is not unusual for someone from the other side
to go to great lengths to try and make contact.
This woman loved Martha very much.
I felt the maternal energy the minute I realized she was with me in the
woods.”
“So,
are you saying Mary is Martha’s mother?”
Maude asked.
“I
wasn’t certain last night, but now that you are here I am convinced of your
past relationship,” Charlotte told her.
“What
is so urgent that Martha’s mother needs to speak to me?” Maude braced herself for the answer.
The Cliffs of Moher, Ireland. Photo by Rosanne L. Higgins
“Well,
I’m not sure exactly. As I said, she
just keeps showing me these images of the sea, the cottage on the remote island,
and the horse-drawn wagon on the bridge.”
Charlotte closed her eyes in concentration. “Along with these images, I am feeling a
sense of dread. Something unwelcome is
connected to that location.”
