Free The Eagle and the Rose by Rosemary Altea Page A

manner. This new entity, who, I began to suspect, was to take the Scotsman's place, was a different force altogether.
    I didn't like not knowing who he was, and that made me a little nervous. But I was more curious than afraid and began to look for little signs or clues as to who the mystery man was. And I sensed more and more that I would not have to wait much longer to find out.
    The date was February 10,1982. My daughter, Samantha, was not quite twelve years old. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and I was driving home from Doncaster along a straight country road, when it happened. I got my final clue. A huge bird seemed to come from out of the blue and flew straight across the hood of the car. My foot hit the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt, with me inside shaking like a leaf. I'd really thought I was going to hit the thing.
    What was it? I thought. An eagle? No. It couldn't have been, we don't have eagles in this part of the country. But it was. As soon as I'd thought those words I knew that I was right.
    I tried to picture it in my mind but only got the image of its underside, which had been grey.
    I drove home, puzzling over what had happened, knowing that this incident definitely had something to do with the still unknown spirit entity who I now felt often, at my side. But what it meant I still didn't know. I just couldn't figure it out.
    Samantha was waiting for me outside the school gates, and I picked her up and drove straight home. The rest of the afternoon was spent in the garden with my daughter, and it was only as I was getting her ready for bed that I thought again of the earlier incident with the eagle. She was sitting on my knee, sopping wet with a large towel wrapped round her, having just come out of the bath, and she was recounting the events of school that day. As I rubbed her dry I listened intently, making the odd comment here and there.
    This was our time, my daughter's and mine. A time for chuckles and cuddles and talking. A bedtime ritual I indulged in thoroughly. That precious hour of closeness, nice soapy smells and warmth.
    So I nodded and smiled as I listened attentively to her chatter. Then she said, “And we've been doing birds, Mum, as well.”
    “Birds? What do you mean, you've been ‘doing’ birds?” I replied.
    Samantha explained how they had been discussing various types of birds in her nature class that afternoon.
    It crossed my mind, as I tucked my daughter into bed a short time later, that birds seemed quite relevant today to both of us. And was it my imagination, or did I really hear my unknown “spirit being” chuckle at this thought?
    This evening, Wednesday, was my “development” night. So as soon as I'd put Samantha to bed, I got ready for my visitors. There were five of us that night. Besides myself, Irene, Paul, and Mick, I had decided to invite a woman who was a regular visitor to the Friday discussion group.
    Adele Campion was a lady who, on first meeting, conveyed the wrong impression. She seemed quite dour, rarely smiled, and had extremely strong views on many subjects. Some may have called her pigheaded; others more kindly would have described her as strong-minded. I liked her, and for many reasons.
    I found her openness and candor refreshing, and even though it was well hidden, she really did have a great sense of humor. A little dry, perhaps, but lovely all the same.
    Later on, both she and her husband, Phil, became good friends of mine, and at a time when friends were very thin on the ground. If I ever needed help or advice, these two kind people were always on hand.
    On this Wednesday evening we five sat in a small circle, not really knowing what to expect, Adele least of all. Mick had requested she sit quietly and not interfere in any way, no matter what happened.
    We had begun by asking, as always, for protection and for God's guiding hand. And then we sat and waited.
    Slowly I became aware of that now familiar feeling that precedes trance: a sensation of