Maya's Aura: The Redemptioner Read online

  She thought for a second and then she fished around again and pulled out a USB memory stick, her backup stick from her netbook computer. Now she held up both the USB stick and Britta's crystal next to each other. They were about the same size.

  "Just like this computer gismo hold the memory files from my computer, so does this quartz crystal hold the memories of our ancestor Britta. Don't ask me how it works, but some nerds told me that it is probably because both of these memory devices are forms of silicon crystals. This one the computer can read, while this one my aura can read."

  "So you need an aura to read one? What about saving the memories. Do you need an aura for that, too?" Nana confirmed. She also had an aura but hers was weak in comparison to her great grand daughter's. Maya's aura was scary strong. If you didn't know it was an aura, you would think it was black magic. No. White magic, because it was a healing power.

  "I think so. I mean, like, how could I know for sure. Britta, for instance, wore this crystal over two hundred years ago. I assume she had an aura. They seem to run in our family."

  "It would be nice if you could dream more with Britta's crystal, while you are here. My attempt to write a historical novel about her based on her diaries is sort of stuck in the mud. I mean, I have scanned, transcribed, and indexed her letters and her diaries, but her words are so, so, out of context. Some smellorama 3-D visions might explain a lot."

  Maya pushed her chair closer to her gran so she could hug her. Her great grandmother had been a very literate-professor-type in her day, and had led a life filled with books and learning. Now she was trying not to be left behind by a world drowning in the urgent random information of the Web. She knew that Nana was working long hours on her laptop trying to put together an historical novel about Britta, the first of the family to immigrate to America.

  "If you think it will help, then of course I will do some dreaming with her crystal for you, but you have to be prepared to sit beside me while I sleep and make notes of anything I may say. You know how it is with dreams. You never seem to remember the best ones after you wake up. I will need your notes to help me to remember the dreams."

  Nana looked down at the crystal while figuring out the underlying complexity of what Maya had just explained. Maya needed notes as triggers to remembered memories placed in her mind, by dreams projected by her aura, from memories stored in this crystal over two hundred years ago by someone else’s aura, from their memories in their mind. She was glad she was writing fiction, because no historians would accept such ethereal provenance.

  "Of course, dear. I don't sleep very much any more anyway. Perhaps I am too afraid of the day when I will fall asleep and not wake up." Nana picked up the English style tea pot, with cozy, and poured some more English style tea into very dainty and pretty English china cups. Nana was proud of her English heritage.

  * * * * *

  While Maya slept, Nana watched her. The heirloom quartz crystal was laying on the pillow not a half an inch from the girl's neck but not touching her skin. Maya was over that first half hour of must-put-my-head-down deep sleep and now her eyes were now moving quickly underneath her eyelids. She was in REM sleep. She was dreaming.

  Nana, Maya and Britta had something more in common that just a bloodline. All three of them had this extra animal sense. It was like the sense of touch, but it was touchless. For simplicity sake they called this extra sense an aura, because everyone had heard of aura's. Religious folk called them halos.

  This 'beyond touch' sense was so delicate that any sense of touch blocked out the sensation. Modern people didn't use or feel auras anymore because the constant touch of their clothing blocked them out. As with any other natural gift, if you didn't use your aura, you eventually lost it through atrophy.

  Before falling asleep, Maya had told Nana that if she didn't dream about Britta, then it could be because of the touch of the sheets. If that happened she was supposed to wake her slightly and get her to sit in the lotus meditation pose and clip the crystal's silken chord to her hair so that the crystal draped down the back of her neck, but did not touch the neck.

  Maya had also told Nana to use a light and happy voice, and to keep asking simple questions to keep Maya talking in her dreams. The first question was "Who are you." She repeated it a dozen times, softly, until there was a response.

  "I am Britta, silly," it was more of a breath than a whisper.

  Nana sucked in her breath. Bingo. Britta had been their foremother who came to America in 1772 from England, and had experienced first hand the War of Independence in Massachusetts.

  "What are you doing?" Nana repeated over and over in a happy whisper.

  "Following the jailer to the docks."

  "Are you in jail?"

  "My mother is in jail. The jailer is trying to help us," said the whisper. Nana wondered if the whisper was Maya's voice or Britta's. Were these dreams so vivid that the sound of it was also from two hundred years ago.

  "Who is us? How is he helping you?"

  "Helping Jon and I to find a ship to take us to the Americas. My mother is to be transported, so we must find passage to the Americas. We must meet her in the Americas."

  Nana smiled. It was working. Jon was Britta's brother. "Where is you're father?"

  "They are both long dead, died in the war."

  "Who is your mother?" Nana knew all these answers from reading Britta's diaries. She was just practicing on stuff she already knew.

  "Why Inka, of course. Inka the Healer. She gave me her crystal and her ring to take with us to the Americas. She was afraid that they would be stolen from her."

  Nana quickly wrote some notes. It had been the finding of the crystal, the ring, and Britta's diaries, all hidden together in a tea tin underneath the old foundation of the cottage, that had begun this quest into her foremother. "Why is your mother being transported?"

  "They have accused her of witchcraft, but my mother is not a witch. She is a healer, a midwife. She agreed to be transported instead of going to trial. She may not have survived the trial. We have to find passage on a ship. The jailer will help us. He is a kind man. He let us keep the ring and the crystal and has agreed to help us find passage. My mother has promised him something if he helps us."

  Nana decided not to ask the obvious question about what was promised. What would a woman in prison have left to give? Instead she changed tack. "Where are you now?"

  "Near the docks."

  "Umm, which docks?"

  "The ones near the market."

  Nana chuckled. Once she had taken part in a hypnosis experiment about unlocking memories, and these simplistic questions and answers reminded her of the techniques the hypnotist had used. "What town are the docks in?"

  "Bristol, of course, can't you see? We have reached the Company office and the jailer is taking us in. It is filled with loud men. I am so glad we are with a man."

  "Which company?" asked Nana ready to write down the answer.

  "The East India Company. They have the most ships. The jailer is talking to a man at the desk. They are arguing. Now he is talking to a man who has the look of a sea man, but is better dressed."

  "Did they find you passage?"

  "Yes, but I feel there is something they are not telling us. We have passage on the Dartmouth. The sea man is the Purser of the ship. He is taking us to a shed where we can wait to board. It will be leaving tonight on the tide. There are already a dozen women and their children in the shed. They are poor and dirty, and they are speaking in some strange language. They keep crossing their hearts so they must be Papists."

  Nana was going to ask about the Papists. That was the old name for Catholics because they believed in the Pope. She wrote the questions down to ask later. "Are they waiting for the same ship?"

  "Yes, and Clive, the Purser, he is being so nice. He has told me that they are Irish and that I should ignore them, and not go near to them. They are going to the Americas to be reunited with their husbands who have been transported. They seem
nice. A few speak English. Clive frowns at me when I speak with them."

  * * * * *

  Her chin dropped and Nana woke up from dozing over her notes. How long had she been asleep? She shivered and pulled her own blanket tighter around her shoulders. Maya was twisting and turning in her sleep and Nana reached forward and repositioned the crystal on the pillow.

  "What are you doing, Britta?" Nana asked in a soft happy voice, over and over. It was so strange, so confusing to speak to Maya, but to be answered from Britta's memory. The dreams must be vivid indeed to allow Maya to become so one with them.

  "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't be on deck, but it smells so horrid down below that I thought I would be sick. Uggh the stench of it. I must breath fresh air. Please don't send me back down. Not yet. I don't feel sick when I can see the storm waves lift the ship, and brace myself for them."

  Nana fell asleep curled up beside her notepad. No worries, she had set the alarm to wake her in an hour. She just needed to close her eyes. In the middle of the night she would ask more questions and write down more memory triggers. Triggers to help Maya remember all these vivid crystal dreams after she woke up. Remember them and tell her about them so she could copy them down in detail.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  MAYA’S AURA - the Redemptioner by Skye Smith

  Chapter 2 - May 1772 off Newport, Rhode Island

  Britta stood with the Irish women and looked at their first sight of land in weeks and weeks. It was not just land, but a town with many large houses and brick buildings. She couldn't wait to get off this ship and stand on the ground, and be able to walk in the grass, and under the trees, and to have some privacy. The men cramped onto this ship were always staring at her. Their stares were not nice. There was too much lust in them.

  She saw a shadow pass behind her and stop. She groaned. More staring. What was it this time? Was she showing an ankle in this wind?

  "Do not fret, Miss Britta. We will soon have you on dry land."

  She turned and smiled. It was the ship's purser. The man who had been so kind to her and her brother during the passage. "I can't wait, Clive. I long to smell flowers instead of sea salt and dirty clothes."

  "This is Newport. We will be docked in Providence in a few hours. When we get closer to Providence I will tell you more about what you can expect there. I will come and get you." He gave her a soft salute and then continued walking.

  "Don't trust that one, lass," said the heavy set red headed woman standing beside her, "he thinks too much of hisself."

  "I think he is nice," she replied. "I think he has a parting gift for me, but it would not be seemly to give it to me on deck."

  "Oh, aye, I can imagine the gift he has for you," said the woman snidely.

  Britta's anger at the words flushed her face, "That was insulting both to him and to me." She walked away to stand beside her young brother Jon and the old boatswain who had befriended him shortly after they had set out from Bristol.

  Jon sat with the bosun on a raised hatch so that their eyes were high enough to see over the gunnels of the ship. The ship was now close enough to the island town to see the buildings. "Does everyone on this island live in a mansion?" he asked.

  The bosun laughed at such innocence. They were talking together in the olde tongue, Frisian.

  The bosun had been born in Holland but he had lived his youth in King's Lynn close to where Jon had been raised. After he discovered that both Jon and Britta could still speak the olde tongue, he searched out their company between his watches.

  Now with all the practice, Frisian was all they spoke to each other. It caused others aboard to give them strange looks. It was a tongue that from a distance, sounded like English, but when close enough to hear the words, it was all gobbledygook to an Englishman.

  "That is Jewish Newport, lad, the command center of the Atlantic slave trade. The richest town in New England. Lots of smart men and hard workers. Ship building and whaling pays the bills, but it's their Jamaica connections in the sugar trade that keeps them wealthy. Rum distilleries on every corner. They trade the rum for slaves in Africa and then trade the slaves for sugar in Jamaica."

  "I like sugar," said Jon. "It's one of my favorite things."

  "Everyone likes sugar, boy, from first taste. You are not far wrong when you say that everyone in Newport lives in a mansion. They either own one or serve in one. Yep, the sugar trade and the war made them all as rich as princes. Sticks in the craw of a good Quaker like myself, though. They've destroyed the local native tribes with their rum. They've destroyed a lot of African tribes with their slaving. And for what. Profit, nothing more. They ruin lives for profit."

  Britta did not have to ask which war. The bosun was talking about the world war. The Seven Years War that had ended in 1763. He spoke of it a lot because he had shipped out to both the Dutch Indies and the British Indies during the war.

  "Aye, Newport is a wealthy town filled with wealthy pirates pretending to be gentlemen. It's a good thing for you that we won't be docking there, for they tend to ignore the legal difference between redemptioner and slave." He looked at the two fresh-faced youngsters, so comely and fair. "Who am I to say? It could be that you and your sister would do well there. For sure she would cause a bidding war amongst the gentlemen."

  "Why won't we be docking? We are here now. Why not dock?" asked Jon.

  "Because they don't want us to. We are competitors. This ship," he said knocking his pipe out against a hatch cover, "was named the Dartmouth because she was the first ship built in Dartmouth," he pointed the pipe north along the coast, "the next town that way. A Quaker town, and this ship is owned by a Quaker family, the Rotch family. Dartmouth and Newport compete in ship building and whaling, and the England trade. The Quaker ships are favored by the Company because there's nearly nothin' lost to pilfering on a Quaker ship."

  "So that is why all the crew are Quaker?" asked Britta.

  "All 'cepting the purser and the rigging monkeys. Clive is a Company man. Thee be careful around him girl. Thoughts of thee fill his head while he sleeps. Anyway, in order for Newport to compete with Dartmouth for the England trade, they've been forced to build ships and then sell the ship and the cargo together in Bristol. Yep, those Newport gentlemen hate us Quakers, and they hate the Company even more, even though they made their fortunes privateering for the company."

  He pulled his flint box out of his vest and looked up at the sun. "No, we aren't welcome here. The only reason we have stopped is to wait for a customs ship to escort us safely to Providence."

  "In England they told us we were going to Boston," said Britta. She had been worried about it since they had set sail. How would their mother find them if they didn't go to Boston?

  "Can't be helped, lass. We have a delivery to make to Brown's foundry in Providence. Thy passage is to the first port, so thee will have to get off there. Don't worry, lass. Maybe some of the Newport gents will be on the dock to pay thy passage for thee. They have more money than God."

  "How did the world war make them so rich?" asked Jon. "Everyone else became poorer, what with all the taxes and fees to pay off the debts from fighting it, even though we won."

  "Well now, wars are costly, and I don't just mean the price of weapons. Money that should go to building things, goes to destroying things, like buildings and crops and lives. This lot got richer because of profiteering."

  "Profiteering, Is that like pirating?" asked Jon.

  "They were known as privateers. Commissioned by one side to pirate the ships of the other side."

  "But privateers are pirates, right?" asked Jon.

  "Sort of. Pirates are outlaws, living outside all laws, so whenever they are caught they are hung. It means they tend not to leave witnesses alive. Privateers are under legal commissions and have safe harbors to run to, so they don't need to kill witnesses. They hold them for ransom instead."

  Britta stared at the row of mansions and hissed, "Cutthroats."

 
"Newport before the war," the bosun pointed his pipe, "was a busy trading port. Whalers, slavers, fishermen, coastal traders. That means lots of small fast ships."

  "So when the world war started they became privateers," finished Jon.

  "Not just privateers, lad. The most envied of privateers. They were positioned to prey on the sugar trade. If they weren't capturing sugar, then they were capturing the valuables that ships traded for sugar. They captured so much that they had to become smugglers in order to sell it all, and they didn't care which side they sold it to. The profits from the evils of war are bigger than thee could ever dream of. Profiteering from the misfortunes of others."

  "So why do they hate the Company," asked Jon, "if it made them richer than God?"

  "Because when the war ended, the Company didn't need them anymore and cut them loose. They are sitting in those fine mansions hoping there will be another war, and soon."

  A call came down from the rigging. "Sail Ho, Making for us. Port bow. Schooner rigged."

  "That will be the customs ship," said the bosun, and pulled a small glass from his pocket and peered though it. "Aye, schooner rigged, fleet of foot. She'll be the Gaspee, not the Beaver. Sorry children, I have my work to do."

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  Britta could hear the rolling thunder of the anchor dragging its chain, and then the splash as it hit the water. Through the tiny porthole window she craned her neck to see what Providence looked like. In England she had been told that the provincials in the Americas all lived in small log houses. This was her second New England town, and both had proper brick buildings.

  "Clean yourself up and put on your best clothes, lass," Clive said from behind her, "you want to look groomed and healthy for the bidding on the dock."

  "What bidding?"

  He chuckled. "The bidding for you, lass. The bidding to see who will redeem your passage."

  "Oh," she replied, not quite sure, "of course. A local man will redeem our passage and Jon must work for him for a year."