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  WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT

  WITHOUT FEAR OF FALLING

  “I love this story & the writing - lyrical, romantic & spiritual. The reader is taken on a journey that is savored long after the book is put down. You can’t help but continue to think about the truths & possibilities explored.”

  Elise Ballard, author of Epiphany: True Stories of Sudden Insight to Inspire, Encourage and Transform

  “Danielle Boonstra is a raconteur for love and miracles. She shares her truth through her stories and empowers others to do the same.”

  Gabrielle Bernstein, author of Spirit Junkie

  “The late 18th century springs to life in this heartfelt novel about healing past hurts through a present willingness to open to higher truth and enduring love. Danielle Boonstra creates passionate, memorable characters, seamlessly weaving contemporary and historical for a deftly rendered, compelling, and inspiring read!”

  Susan Dugan, author of the essay collection Extraordinary Ordinary Forgiveness and the linked short story collection Safe Haven.

  First published by Soul Rocks Books, 2013

  Soul Rocks Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,

  Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

  [email protected]

  www.johnhuntpublishing.com

  www.soulrocks-books.com

  For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

  Text copyright: Danielle Boonstra 2012

  ISBN: 978 1 78099 788 9

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Danielle Boonstra as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design: Stuart Davies

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

  To my grandfather, J.W.L. Scruton.

  This all began with you.

  Acknowledgements

  This is my very first novel and so there are a great many people to thank. First I want to thank my friend Meredith for mentioning NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) to me and to the NaNoWriMo team for doing your thing. This is where “Without Fear of Falling” was born.

  Thanks to my hugely talented editor, Amanda Berlin. You saw so much potential in that messy first draft. I cannot thank you enough for your guidance, expertise and love.

  Thanks to Susan Dugan for your incredible generosity and direction. I admire your writing and your approach to life. You are a wonderful teacher.

  Thanks to Ola, our Tuesday Night ACIM facilitator. I love you for all that you do.

  Thanks to EVERYONE at John Hunt Publishing, especially Alice Grist, for your kindness and willingness to help make my dream come true.

  Thanks to all the people of the Bruce who I’ve met over the years, especially Kim, Karen and Rowan.

  Thanks to my unbelievably loving friends. Cindy, you were this book’s first big fan and your love for it and for me kept me going. Macha and Laurie, your endless love, wisdom and support mean the world to me. Corinne, thank God for you. Christy, your love sustains me indescribably. Gabby, I thank you for being you and for creating Her Future. Elise, who was such a supporter of this book and had so many ideas on how to improve it, and she was right. Tanya & Amy, my former roommates who supported my writing from the very beginning and who support all I do. Alex, for all your love and enthusiasm. Tina, my friend forever…Thank you. Kimmy, who read this book in a day and demanded more sex scenes. And to Livy, there are no words. I love you all from a place I can’t even name.

  Thanks to my family. My parents, for everything…again there are no words. My brother, I know I can always count on you. My mother-in-law, who adored this book and told all her friends they had to wait to buy their own copies and to my father-in-law, I love you both. My sister-in-law Melissa, who was a fan right from the beginning…you may know a published writer now, but I’ve always known an incredibly loyal and loving person in you. My sister-in-law, Laura who gave me wonderful feedback and who I just love for always being herself. To my Aunts Sharon and Linda, I feel your love and support all the way here in Ontario. To my grandparents, all four of you, for your love, attention and laughter in childhood and beyond.

  To my children, Noelle and Ivan, you are my greatest teachers. I love everything about you both.

  And to Michael, my partner and best friend. I love you, always.

  “There are no accidents in salvation. Those who are to meet will meet, because together they have the potential for a holy relationship. They are ready for each other.”

  A Course in Miracles (M7)

  “Your heart and my heart are very, very old friends.”

  Hafiz

  CHAPTER 1

  There is a place in the world where the wind can cut you and lift you at the same time. I have lived there forever it seems. You feel harmed and inspired all at once…vulnerable and yet safe. It exists at the tip of a peninsula bordering two bodies of water that merge into the most serene and crystal blue. One side is harsh, the other calm. Love and fear collide here and yet only one can be true.

  I like love.

  Tobermory is a Canadian town, small and thin, that beckons divers of the deep and roamers worldwide. And yet those who live here year-round are few. It takes a strong soul to suffer the silence of the North. Silence beats of truth. It conveys all the things we’d rather not hear. And that is why we like the noise.

  Tobermory bears the bruises of its history. Shipwrecks are easily spied and tales are readily told to anyone willing to listen. Its people bear bruises too. Those of us, whose families have lived here for generations, have seen many harsh winters and an equal number of hard times. Those who are newcomers are here for escape, for peace. Peace is expected among the quiet, but rarely found.

  I like it best here in November when the shops close down, and it’s too soon for ice fishing. I like the uncompromising chill in the air. During this time my town bears little resemblance to the sunny, tourist-ridden destination of summertime. There is an empty trill, as if the symphonies of voices that collect here in the warmer months have faded, albeit reluctantly, into the background…haunting us. We walk among it, barely aware, going headlong into the long, dark cold ahead. We exist there.

  I have lived in Tobermory my entire life. My name is Suellen Scarlett Stewart, but everyone calls me “Ellie”. My mother was seventeen when she gave birth to me and at the time she had been more than a little obsessed with the movie Gone with the Wind. I once asked her why she had named me after the whiny, bitchy sister and not the beautiful heroine. Her response: “Don’t kid yourself, Ellie. Scarlett was a real bitch too.” Neither of us have ever been south of Owen Sound. I’ve never left the Peninsula. While Frances had always lamented her sheltered life, I’ve always kind of brushed it off. In my mind I’ve been everywhere.

  I have struggled with a few things in my twenty-two years, but the quiet was always there, waiting in the backstage of my mind with a serene smile and peaceful brow. I have had visions since I was small. These visions have comforted me and overwhelmed me depending on what I see. I’ve seen flashes of columns with crowds of people, a horse-drawn sleigh scaling a snow-covered hill; a dense jungle filled with men armed with spears…the list goes on. I see them bright and quick a
nd then it’s gone.

  When I was a child, I would tell my mom in excited detail what I saw and thankfully, she always believed me. The first vision I remember describing to my mom took place at a river bank with reeds that towered over me, thick as bone and just as strong. I saw myself as a teenager, sending a doll on a raft down the river.

  “What did the doll look like, Ellie?” she asked patiently.

  “It almost looked like a real baby, but it didn’t move so it must’ve been a doll. I’m crying though. I don’t want to send my doll away,” I told her, recalling the sadness of that moment as if it were happening again right then.

  Frances’ amusement shifted into anxious concern right before my eyes. The next day she broke down and took me to see Mrs. Dawes, a local psychic who also happens to be the owner of the health food store, The Natural Touch. I was eight years old.

  The residents of Tobermory call Mrs. Dawes many things: gypsy, psychic, fortune teller, but she accepts none of these. She claims that everyone can “see” and that she has merely done more “seeing” than most. She would work at the store during the day, and in the evenings she would take people into the back room and offer her insight, healing hands or just a friendly ear.

  I remember the day we went to the health food store and instead of buying bulgur or kale or carob chip cookies, we continued on to the rear of the shop. I resisted the urge to grab a licorice as we walked past the bulk bins. To me, The Natural Touch would always smell like patchouli, honey and wheatgrass, but that day it was different. There was something lighter and yet heavier in the air. The atmosphere felt dense with possibility, as if I was walking into something that had already been carefully laid out for me. I felt protected, though I had no notion of what I needed protection from.

  It seemed more like a visit to a doctor than anything. I was eight; I had no context, no comparison.

  Mrs. Dawes was kind and she smiled wide. Her eyes were calm, expectant. She never showed any sign of surprise or even boredom, just pure patience. When my mother told Mrs. Dawes about the visions, she simply nodded her head and smiled. She was slightly shorter than my mother and rounder too. Her curves were comforting, almost as much as her soothing voice and the way she called me “Love”. With Mrs. Dawes there was something to cling to. She would never let you drop.

  Turning to me she crouched down a bit so as not to look down on me. And with her big blue eyes bright against her long, fuzzy red hair she stared straight into me. “Are you finding it frightening, dear?”

  “No not really. It’s not too bad. Sometimes I see people crying and stuff, but I don’t know why. That’s when I turn it off,” I answered shyly.

  “Oh? You can turn it off, can you? Interesting,” she remarked quietly. Her bangle bracelets jingled as she brought her index finger to her mouth in contemplation. I was a puzzle and yet it seemed that, in mere moments, she figured me out and has understood me ever since.

  “What’s interesting? What? What is it?!” asked my mother in agitation, her wavy blond hair flitting about her heart-shaped face.

  “Calm down, Frances. You’ll scare the girl. I can’t say for sure, but it seems as though your daughter is having visions and if I were to venture a guess, I would say they are visions of past lives.” Mrs. Dawes’ voice was gentle. I remember my mom just staring at me for a moment, her mouth open with a look on her face halfway between impressed and horrified and all I could think was, ‘What the heck are past lives?’

  “Past lives? I just thought they were like daydreams or something. How can we be sure?” she asked.

  “I would say it’s not really a matter of being sure, Frances. These visions are coming up for Ellie for a reason. Something needs to be healed. She is meant to learn something from this and she is also meant to teach.”

  My mother considered that for a moment. Biting her lip and glancing at me she asked, “Who is she meant to teach?”

  “That will just have to be shown to her now won’t it?” said Mrs. Dawes giving me a wink. “In the meantime, I’m giving you a flower remedy to administer any time she feels anxious. It’s perfectly safe.”

  Frances seemed relieved, if only a little. She combed my hair with her fingers as if reaffirming I was her child, thanked Mrs. Dawes without looking her in the eye and asked if there was anything else she should be doing.

  “Just pay attention. And Ellie, there’s nothing to worry about. What happened back then cannot harm you now. Now is when the healing is done. Now is where the miracle happens.”

  She patted my blonde head and swept a freckled hand across my cheek. I appreciated her kindness, but I still don’t understand what’s going on. Did these visions make me special or weird somehow?

  “Am I weird?” I mumbled.

  “What’s that, love?”

  “She asked if she was weird,” Frances clarified.

  Mrs. Dawes threw her head back with a laugh as if to communicate that she should have told me this sooner. “No, Ellie, not at all! We all receive different gifts in different lifetimes. This is just one of yours. It makes you no better or weirder than anyone else. It is merely a tool, something to help you through life, and if you choose, to help others. Do you understand?”

  I nodded and in that moment, decided to trust her.

  “You know, my dear, I could use some assistance around here. How would you like to help me out on Fridays after school? You could sweep the floors and help me unpack my deliveries, if it’s okay with your mother of course.”

  I looked up at my mom with hopeful eyes. She smiled at me and told me I could as long as I went there straight off the bus and then came right home when I was done. Hugging her hips, I thanked her. The thought of a grown-up lady like Mrs. Dawes needing me made me feel so good. Mrs. Dawes helped me believe I was normal. I felt safe with her, at home somehow. I remember thinking to myself: Why couldn’t she be my mother?

  As we left the store my mother said to me, “You’re going to have to be patient with me, baby girl. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing at the best of times, never mind this stuff. You just…you’re just growing so fast. I feel like I’m losing you again.”

  “Again?” I asked.

  “Hm?”

  I looked up at her. “You said ‘again’, mommy. You said you feel like you’re losing me again.”

  She screwed up her nose at this and dismissed my comment with a wave of her hand, “I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said that.”

  A flash of an older woman, my mother’s mother, swept through my mind’s eye. “You look like grandma when you do that.”

  Frances looked at me with mock severity. “For the love of God, Ellie, please don’t ever say that again.”

  I don’t remember my grandparents too much because they moved to Florida before my second birthday. My Uncle Hamish went to university and medical school in Toronto and did his residency in Sarasota. It eventually set in that he was unlikely to move back so Frances’ parents up and moved to be close to him. When my mother asked why, my grandmother replied “He’s a doctor, Frances. He can take care of us. Besides, what’s for us here in Tobermory but wind and winter?”

  My mother said she wanted to offer herself and I as reasons to stay, but didn’t. After all, anyone could have a baby. Becoming a doctor took brains and talent. Hamish held more promise than Frances ever could.

  John and Judy Stewart became images to me…people who would send and request pictures of me through the years. I would listen to their thick Scottish accents on monthly phone calls and feign interest in people who never saw fit to visit me or my mother. I never really felt their absence, but Frances did and for that, I felt badly.

  My grandmother’s sister, Deborah, left the Bruce a few years after. She moved to Sauble Beach with her boyfriend and never looked back. Frances wasted no time in buying Deborah’s home, gladly leaving her parents’ bat-infested farmhouse behind. My only memory of that place was the high-pitched squeals of the bats between the walls and floors and h
ow it drove Frances insane.

  Our new home was a lovely old house with a grey board and batten exterior and a garnet-coloured door. The stairs squeak, but light streams in effortlessly through every window throughout the day, as if the sun decided each should have its turn. It overlooks the bay, and one can watch the boats come and go.

  I have always loved looking out across the lake to the lighthouse and have, since I was a little girl, imagined a kindly old man there, keeping watch, keeping us safe. He doesn’t exist, mind you. There hasn’t been a lighthouse keeper there since the 1950s, but I like the idea that someone kind watches over me all the same.

  CHAPTER 2

  After that first meeting, I helped her every Friday after school for six years. It was my time spent with Mrs. Dawes at her store that I attribute to my sanity. As long as I had Mrs. Dawes to speak with, I didn’t need anyone else. In her I had a friend, sympathetic and unwilling to judge. The kids at school were like background noise, ever-present and begging to be ignored.

  I showed up to work the very next Friday and the first words out of my mouth were the ones I had been holding all week long: “What the heck are past lives?”

  “Oh Ellie!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “You do like to get right to the point don’t you?!” It sounded to me like a question that didn’t really need to be answered so I kept quiet, waited. “You, my dear, have not always been Suellen Stewart. You have been born and have died many times. You have been men and you have been women. Each time you come back, you are given what seems to be a different situation and yet it is always the same. You are always on a fruitless search for what is yours already. We all are and we all will be until we remember. In the meantime, we die and we get born, over and over again.”

  I remember blinking at her several times and then seeing her laugh at me good-naturedly. It was clear she was saying something important, and I remembered the gist of it I think, but I had no idea what it meant. I wondered if I ever would.