A friend of mine always knows when someone close to her passes away. She’s visited by what she calls a dragonfly.

She describes it as a sort of quick, sharp vibration or buzz that zaps her somewhere around the head or face, often waking her in the night.

The first time it happened to her, she didn’t realize exactly what it was until later, when she learned that someone close to her had died at that time.

But then when her mother died, my friend woke in the middle of the night to a snapping buzz at the base of her skull, just above her neck, and she knew it was her mother–who’d been declining, but wasn’t necessarily on her deathbed. It was her mother’s soul, her mother’s spirit…whatever it was, saying goodbye.

“It’s a pleasant, peaceful feeling, usually with the essence of that person. I can actually feel them,” she explained to me.

Another time, a friend of hers buzzed her near the face, while she was awake. She says, “I knew it was her immediately–I was overwhelmed by the sense of her. Peace, joy, and her personality.”

This friend of mine is much more attuned to her subconscious and unconscious than I am–although I’m trying to change that. She meditates regularly, and often has a sixth-sense about things that end up proving right.

I’m fascinated by stories like this–of experiences people have when a loved one dies, or when a health care worker sees or feels something as one of their patients passes on. Hospice workers have so many stories about seeing guides or angels waiting to usher their own loved one on to the next plane, or of things that the dying person says or does. By way of research, I read a book written by a hospice doctor when I was writing Night Betrayed (as Joss Ware). It’s the fourth book in my Envy Chronicles, set in a dystopian world, and the main character is a woman who’s gifted with very special skills–and sensitivities–to help people pass on.

In the dystopian, post-apocalyptic world of The Envy Chronicles, there are no hospices or hospitals, or even doctors or drugs. Their health care is primitive. People die much more readily then than they do in our world.

As I wrote the book, I was reflective about hospice workers and how much they give to us and to our loved ones as they pass on. The nurses, physicians, assistants and volunteers that I’ve met who work in these situations have such breathtaking and special views on death and dying. I learn something new every time I speak with one of them. I admire them beyond words, and that’s why I dedicated Night Betrayed to hospice workers and caregivers of the terminally ill.

Some of the stories are heart-wrenching, some are beautiful, and others are even amusing. After hearing many of these anecdotes, I have no doubt that there is a life, a plane, something beyond this world, after death.

Another friend of mine had a husband who passed away after a long bout of cancer. He was known throughout the family for being extremely, extremely frugal. His wife, my friend, claimed John wouldn’t buy milk if it was over $2.00 a gallon, even though he loved milk. Even their nieces and nephews were aware of this frugality of his, and it was a family joke–so much so that one of the nieces tucked a dollar bill into his suit when he was in the coffin.

When John passed away at last, he was to be cremated after all of the viewings and funeral. My friend was meeting with the funeral director and going through things, and which of John’s items she wanted to keep (wedding ring, no, watch, yes, etc.). The funeral director quizzically asked her about the dollar bill they found in his suit after removing him from the coffin in preparation for the cremation. Was there some significance; did she want to keep the dollar or not?

My friend got a misty-eyed look and said, “Oh, let him take it with him.” And so the dollar bill was thus cremated along with John and his wedding ring.

The next day, which was to be John’s funeral at our church, one of the staff members arrived very early that morning to open up and get prepared for the funeral. There was no one else there. Everything was deserted.

But there, in the middle of the parking lot, all by itself…was a dollar bill.

(Excerpt from Sanctuary of Roses)

~~*~~

She was in the garden when he came for her.

After two fortnights spent trying to banish Gavin Mal Verne from her memory, Madelyne sensed his presence even before she heard the clink of sword against his mail chausses.

A shadow, long and heavy, fell across her lap where she was forming rose beads. The black mush of stewed rose petals covered her hands and arms and spotted an old gown. The air was heavy with the scent of the flowers, nearly as smothering as the weight that settled over her when she realized he’d come.

And yet, at the same time, a rush of something else flooded her when she looked up into his grave face. ’Twas almost welcome, seeing him again, feeling the command of his full strength as she had not when he was ill.

“My lord.”

“Lady Madelyne. You do not seem surprised to see me.”

That he used her title did not surprise her. Verily he’d discovered her identity and that was the reason he’d come. For a brief moment, panic surged through her, but she beat it back and wrapped her own strength about her. God would be with her, and…God help her, but she did not believe Lord Mal Verne would hurt her.

“Nay, I am not. What do you wish from me?”

He stood, looking down at her, his shadow casting darkness over her work. “What do you do there?”

Madelyne held up two small wooden paddles, grateful for a moment’s reprieve before he should respond, and replied, “The rose petals have been cooked for days. Now, I take them betwixt these spoons and roll them into beads. See there.” She pointed to a length of linen spread in the sun, dotted with perfect, round beads.

To her surprise, he reached into a leather pouch that hung from his tunic and pulled out the prayer beads she’d left with him before. “You’ve become more skilled in these last years.”

“Aye.”

She was surprised again when he hunkered down to sit next to her on the log bench. Now, his face was nearly on level with hers, and his nearness even more overpowering. Strength, warmth, intensity vibrated from his person—yet his eyes and his countenance remained cold and bleak. Madelyne had the sudden urge, so odd at this moment when he threatened her peace and well-being, to touch his face, to learn whether it was as unyielding as it appeared. She curled her fingers into themselves and willed her foolishness not to betray her.

“Why did you trick me? Why did you not allow us to leave with some dignity?” he asked.

She swallowed. ’Twas no surprise that a man of his power should be angered at her deceit. Using one of the flat spoons, she scooped up a small portion of the black stew and began to roll it into the shape of a ball as she chose her words to respond.

Gavin watched how her fine hands manipulated the paddles, noticing again the three freckles that decorated one narrow wrist. Her head was bent, and the edge of its veil obstructed much of the expression on her face, though he could see the length of long, thick lashes as she blinked. She had shown no surprise at his presence, nor mistrust, he thought. How could that be?

“We sought only to protect ourselves.” Her words, when they came, were as even and calm as the rhythm of her breathing.

She looked at him, and he saw nothing but the gray depths of her eyes, clear and without deceit, without fear. For a fleeting moment, he wondered when last a woman had looked upon him without fear…and with such guilelessness. She had naught to hide, it seemed…but he knew that could not be so.

“Forgive us for acting in such a manner,” she continued, “but, my lord, we did what we thought best.”

“You removed us from the abbey so that we couldn’t find our way here again, yet you aren’t disturbed at my presence.”

She blinked, and he could see the faintest movement of her lips as they tightened in the first indication of uneasiness. “’Tis true, I wish that you hadn’t found your way back to the abbey…but now you are here, and there is naught I can do. Your presence portends little good for me, but I pray…do you not hurt my sisters.”

“I mean harm to none here at Lock Rose Abbey,” Gavin replied. “I merely come in the king’s name.”

“The king? What has he to do with those of us here?” Confusion passed over her face, and she allowed the black-stained paddles to drop into the stew pot.

“His royal majesty, King Henry, demands the presence of Madelyne de Belgrume at his court.” His words were more formal than necessary, and he spoke them distinctly and with a hint of threat to be certain she understood the gravity of the situation. “I have been appointed to bring you to him.”

She remained silent, and Gavin waited impatiently for her outraged response. When she said nothing, he prodded her. “You do not deny that you are Madelyne de Belgrume, daughter of Fantin de Belgrume, Lord of Tricourten?”

“Nay.” The breath she expelled was silent, but of such force that he felt its warmth on his face.

“Then you know you must come with me.”

“Aye.”

Gavin was caught by the clear steadiness of her eyes, and then they were shuttered as she lowered her lids. She took away the cloth that had rested on her lap, protecting her gown, and set it on the ground. There seemed to be little more to say.

Made a bit uncertain by the ease of her acquiescence, Gavin rose to his feet and extended a hand to assist her to hers.

Madelyne reached for it, then stopped, and, dropping her hand back to her side, pulled to her own feet. “I do not wish to stain you,” she explained, spreading her blackened hands. “I will be thus for many days before it fades. Now, I must speak with Mother Bertilde. She does know that you have arrived?”

Gavin nodded, again struck by her clear practicality in what must be a moment of upheaval. “Aye. However, we must leave before matins, so do you not delay. I’ll not be tricked again, and I’ll not be held longer than need be.” The annoyance he’d felt at being deceived by a bunch of women surged within him, and he looked at her sharply. “No tricks, Madelyne.”

“Nay, my lord,” she responded. “It is past the time of tricks.”

_______________

(excerpt from Sanctuary of Roses (c) 2011 Colleen Gleason)