Hangar 13. Lindsay McKenna
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“Well, if a person wants to, he can see through this table, which means he is viewing it through the fourth dimension. But he is ‘seeing’ with this invisible eye here in the center of his forehead. Anyone, with some work, can literally ‘switch’ to his right brain, close his eyes and do this.”
Mac sat back, digesting the wild allegation. She obviously believed that what she was saying was the absolute truth. “I’m having a tough time buying this.”
“Of course you are. Everything in your life has been predicated on left-brain ways. If you can’t see it, weigh it or measure it, it doesn’t exist. Yet—” Ellie smiled “—how do you explain dreams that come true, or a mother knowing her child is in danger or has been hurt before the phone call comes to validate it?”
“Okay…is that right-brain territory? Dreams? Telepathy?”
“Yes.” She was pleased with his ability to catch on quickly. “People utilize their right lobe every day—they just don’t realize it. As a shamaness, I have a special talent for using my right lobe. That’s how I’m able to help people. And now,” Ellie concluded, “back to the drawing board regarding your problem at Hangar 13.” She found herself wanting to ask Mac a lot more personal questions, because despite his military background, and his very one-sided view of the world, he was trying to comprehend her world, too. She found that praiseworthy.
“The fourth dimension is already acknowledged by the scientific community,” she went on. “Quantum physics is about that dimension. Our right brain has the capacity, the genetic setup, to see into that dimension, just as our physical eyes comprehend the first three dimensions. People like myself who have a strong genetic predisposition to right-brain activity, and who do a lot of personal work developing that lobe, can see into the dimension at will.”
“How is it done?” Mac asked. His curiosity was piqued; he always liked exploring new territory, no matter where it was located.
“The right brain’s ability to perceive the fourth dimension can be triggered in so many ways. For some, it’s achieved through meditation. For others, through hallucinogenic drugs.”
“And you?”
“A drum.”
Mac gave her a blank look and saw her smile slightly.
“Native Americans, at least in North America, use the drum, a rattle, or a song or series of songs to create the proper vibrational environment that allows us to slip into the fourth dimension.”
“So,” he said, not at all sure he was putting the theory together properly, “you’re saying this sound creates a doorway, a passage into the right lobe, where this opening is located?”
With a sigh, Ellie got up. “I wish everyone was as perceptive as you.”
Mac sat back, content as never before. The sound of water running and dishes being piled in the sink lulled him pleasantly. “You are able to go into this fourth dimension with the sound frequency created by a drum?”
“Yes.” Ellie pulled down a dish towel and placed it on the counter next to the sinks. “Come on, you can help dry, Major.”
He grinned and stood up. “Considering the great meal, it’s the least I can do.”
Ellie met his very male smile. She noted how relaxed Mac had already become. He was like so many people when first confronted with metaphysics: threatened and ignorant. Once she was able to explain the process in nonthreatening terms, most people lost their wariness. She didn’t expect Mac to believe her, but in order for her to answer the question he’d come to her to solve, he had to understand the basic mechanics of what she did.
As Mac stood beside her drying the dishes, he said, “So tell me—how does this all fit with the potential problem out in Hangar 13?”
CHAPTER THREE
Ellie scrubbed the skillet as she spoke. “Shamans—and shamanesses—have a very unique skill,” she told Mac as he waited patiently at the sink, dish towel in hand. “We operate in the fourth dimension.” She glanced up at him to register his reaction. “What we do is talk lost pieces of a person’s soul into coming back to that person. That’s what we call a healing.”
“Pieces of your soul?” Mac gave her a very skeptical look.
“Don’t judge what I’m saying yet,” Ellie warned. She rinsed the skillet in hot water and handed it to him to dry. “Our belief embraces the possibility that people, as they go through life, lose pieces of themselves to another person or situation. If you’re having trouble with the words soul or spirit, then consider it a loss of energy. People, when traumatized by a situation such as a divorce, the death of a loved one, the loss of a job or some other kind of tragedy, will very often lose a piece of themselves or their energy. Because of the shock, the ‘piece’ becomes stuck or lodged in that time period of their life.”
Mac slowly dried the skillet, scowling. “Shock or trauma creates this condition?”
“Yes.” Ellie took the bean pot and washed it. “And it’s shock or trauma as perceived by the person, not by the world at large. For instance, a child of six falls off her bike and breaks her arm. Now, for an adult, this might not be such a shocking thing. But to the child, it’s a horrible trauma. That little girl will, in all probability, lose a piece of herself.”
Mac shook his head. “What does this losing of pieces do, then?”
She smiled a little and handed him the rinsed pot. “With enough pieces of energy or spirit lost, people fall out of balance with themselves. It’s a highly unconscious thing, but people who have suffered major soul loss begin to automatically rebalance in not-so-positive ways. A woman who gets divorced and loses a large piece of herself to her ex-husband may begin to binge on food, or drink, or be stuck emotionally in the past, never able to let go of that time in her life.”
Mac put the pot aside and leaned thoughtfully against the counter. “Divorce is something I can understand,” he said.
“Most of us do, unfortunately,” Ellie said. She pulled the plug to drain the soapy water and rinsed her hands under the tap. Leaning over, she pulled a dry towel from a peg on the side of the cupboard and dried her hands. “There’re a lot of what I call ‘red flags’ that tell me whether or not a person has lost a piece of himself—or herself—in a divorce.”
“Such as?”
She smiled. “I can see I have your attention a hundred percent.”
“I’m interested,” Mac said, “but that doesn’t mean I believe in this theory of yours.”
With a shrug, Ellie motioned for him to sit down. She began to put the pots and pans away. “That’s fine. I don’t force anyone to believe as I do. But to me, a sign of soul loss is a person who cannot forget the divorce—the hurt, the anger or whatever negative feelings were created as a consequence.”
Mac pulled out his chair and sat back down at the table. He could see dusk begin to settle outside the kitchen window, a few high clouds turned red-orange by the coming sunset. “I’d think it would be natural to have all those feelings after a divorce.” He certainly did.
“Yes, but two or three years afterward? No, that’s not healthy, Mac.”
He scowled.
“Have you been able to adjust to it? Have you gotten on with your life? Or are you carrying the divorce around with you like a good friend?”
“Ouch.” Mac rubbed his jaw. “My life hasn’t been very good since Johanna divorced me,” he admitted slowly.
“And you still think about it and her almost every day?”
He eyed her warily.
“I’m not being psychic, Mac. What I can tell you from my experience is that you two have taken pieces of each