Talk to Me Page 17

  When we approached the courthouse I looked up and saw a judge in an upstairs window with a black derby hat, a beard and round wire glasses. I also saw little boys trying to peek around the corner to watch prisoners being led to the noose. I could see a man of the cloth there, praying for a condemned man’s soul. Together Jaena and I painted the picture of an execution day through the information that the other side was facilitating for us. We were having an amazing time sampling the past. I went there to enjoy myself, and I was enjoying it all!

  Before visiting the courthouse we had gone to the Birdcage Saloon at midnight, and had some interesting interactions with those who choose to remain there, tapping into the impressions left behind in the building from past occurrences. It was a little disheartening, because in the rooms where the prostitutes ‘did their business’ I could hear them screaming from certain ‘surgical’ procedures. I saw a cowboy sitting at the poker table that was roped off, and he kept waving me over to his table to sit with him; he must have thought I was there to ‘work’. It’s a different time now, and I’m not that kind of girl, but that was still amusing to me. I couldn’t help but chuckle knowing that this cowboy wanted my company.

  For a medium, being there at midnight was like a ‘Haunted Disneyland’. What a one-of-a-kind experience! Our host warned us to watch out for the whiptail scorpions. That statement had me jumping around to make sure I had a clear view of the f loor. Scary! I don’t care for scorpions, and I like to keep my distance whenever possible.

  I’d like to thank Terry Fisk and his dad, Larry Fisk, for being such good sports and tackling Tombstone with me. I know I can be a handful sometimes. I really enjoyed seeing all of Terry’s tools and gizmos for measuring energy and spirits. I truly loved the experience—it was definitely memorable—and one day I will do it again!

  TERRY FISK TALKS ABOUT TOMBSTONE

  When I talk about my experience with Allison DuBois in Tombstone at my speaking engagements and conferences, it brings me back to a most interesting interlude with a town with a lot of history, and the first time I met Allison in person.

  I make sure I explain to people that the courthouse is now a museum, but when we first arrived there it had already closed for the day. So we walked about the outside of the courthouse building, and Allison gave me some of her impressions connected to the property. She pointed to a window on the first floor and said, ‘Inside that room I sense the handling of money.’ Being sceptical, this didn’t seem to make much sense to me, as this used to be a courthouse, not a bank.

  We walked to the opposite side of the building where there was a huge brick wall with a locked gate. The wall was too high to see what was on the other side, but Allison said she sensed gallows and hangings that took place there in the 1800s. Since I couldn’t see what was on the other side of the wall, I didn’t know if this was accurate or not. Then Allison pointed to a window on the second floor where she could see a judge looking out the window. Allison said he was wearing a black derby hat and wire-framed glasses; he also had a white beard, and sported a little black bow tie. I looked up at the window, but I couldn’t see anyone. The next day we returned to the museum after the doors had opened. We went to the room where Allison sensed the handling of money and noticed a sign that indicated it used to be the county treasurer’s office. I went inside the room and found a huge walk-in vault that wasn’t visible from outside the window. Her psychic impression seemed to be right on the money (no pun intended).

  After that, we walked to the back of the courthouse and out the back door to see what was behind the brick wall. Lo and behold, we discovered a gallows with a historic marker that detailed the hangings that took place on that very spot in the 1800s.

  We went back into the courthouse, up to the second floor, and to the window where Allison had seen a judge looking out. I hadn’t seen anybody standing there, but I did notice some historic photos on the wall. One of these photos was of Judge James F. Duncan, a county judge in Tombstone for 36 years. He had served longer than any other Cochise County judge had ever served. I would assume that the courthouse would have become quite the home for the judge—after all, he spent a lot of time there. Then I took a closer look at the picture of Judge Duncan and noticed he had a black derby hat, wire-framed glasses, a white beard and a little black bow tie—just like the ghost Allison saw looking out of the window!

  DEATH OF A SAMURAI

  I am often asked, ‘Are there communication barriers for mediums if the deceased speaks a different language?’

  Here is my answer to that very solid question.

  I took my family with me to Tokyo for a Medium TV series/book tour. I hadn’t anticipated the events that would follow my arrival.

  Joe had asked me where I had wanted to go while in Tokyo. Please don’t think me too morbid, but I felt drawn to the cemetery where the 47 Ronin Warriors were buried. The story of the samurai who had avenged the death of their lord fascinated me, and I wanted to walk their sacred grounds. Also, I wanted to take our girls to a Japanese tea ceremony, so that our daughters could learn of Japanese traditions and their respect for one another.

  When our plane landed early in the morning in Tokyo my jet-lagged family of five was promptly greeted at the airport by an effervescent young man named Fumi. Fumi was our interpreter, and an energy ball of a person who also happened to moonlight as a saxophone player. From the get-go, it was clear that Fumi was going to be an outrageously interesting guide to have on our first trip to this beautiful country. He was excited to be our host and interpreter for the trip, and our girls grew very fond of him by the conclusion of our tour. Fumi had lived in Boston for a few years chasing his dream of playing his saxophone for large audiences in a jazz band. Since he had lived in America for quite some time, his English was good, and he was eager to absorb more of our American slang terms. Our daughter Aurora fed him a large helping of slang. His favourites were ‘Copy that’ and ‘Right on!’

  I had a busy schedule with the media, but was given a day and a half to acclimatise to the sixteen-hour time difference, and that was a good thing. My first work day was packed with interviews, and I was introduced to my interpreter, who would assist me with translating my English into Japanese for the media. Her name was Mari, and she was strangely familiar to me, as if we’d met before. Mari had a smile that was reassuring and ever-present to lift the spirit of any stranger. She was tall and slender, with delicate features, making her appear very feminine, yet she had a commanding presence; in her eyes you could see that she also had an iron inner-strength that grew from being worldly, as well as clearing many obstacles in her life with courage. She was a world-class interpreter who was used to working with stars such as Bruce Willis when the entertainment world came knocking. I never had to repeat myself once to Mari; she was my ‘one-take wonder’.

  There was always a buzz in the air in the media room, and I would do well over twenty interviews in a day. These were long days, and I did this for several days. Although it was a lot of work, and I might still be a little scarred (just kidding!), what made it really great was the people and how engaging they were. They had a natural curiosity for learning about the other side, as well as learning about my family.

  When I sat down with Mari and one of the many journalists, I could feel Mari’s mother and grandmother’s presence. So, to acknowledge them, I mentioned them hypothetically when speaking to Mari and the journalist. When I had an opportunity to use them in an example, I did so. I chose examples of interaction with the other side that were specific to what Mari’s mother and grandmother were showing me. Joe knows that in an abstract sort of way, I will frequently use the information coming through to me as an example directed at the person whom it is intended for. I do this to not overstep my boundaries but still give the essence of the message to the living, leaving them thinking of their loved one and opening them up to the possibility that the message was connected to them.

  Mari looked surprised when she heard my example, but continued
in a professional manner, occasionally glancing over at me with question marks in her eyes. At the end of the interview we cleared the air, and I explained to her why I had mentioned her mum and grandma. She acknowledged them as being the two people closest to her whom she had lost. She was very happy to hear that they had such a strong presence in her life and that they were with her daily. So the bond between Mari and I had begun. It was the beginning of a chain of events that would leave us both speechless.

  Mari and I would eventually do somewhere around 30 interviews together. It was a lot, but would no doubt be well worth it as we were launching Medium in Japan.

  During one of the interviews, I was given another opportunity to pass information to Mari from her mother in the form of an example for the media. Mari’s mum kept talking about her pearl ring that Mari had, and I relayed the object to Mari. She smiled at me and I could see that she was moved. After the interview was over, Mari shared with me that she was going to wear her mum’s pearl ring to the interviews that day, but then opted not to. I told Mari her mum was letting her know that even without the ring on her hand, her mum was still with her. Mari sweetly smiled and took in the message.

  While I was working, Joe received my itinerary and informed me that the following Sunday I was set to visit the Ronin cemetery on my first day off following the media tour. I apologised to Joe that it fell on Father’s Day. He assured me that the history lesson would surely be fascinating, no matter what day it fell on.

  Later that week when the media tour was coming to an end, Mari said she had heard that it was on my itinerary to go to the samurai cemetery on Sunday. I confirmed this, and Mari told me that coincidentally she was going to be there on Sunday, too, because it was her family’s burial site as well. In addition to that, her uncle’s memorial was being held that Sunday at the same time that we were going to be there. We were both a bit stunned by this, but also strangely amused, because we both knew that we were being brought there together for a reason. After all, there are no coincidences; somebody’s always pulling the strings.

  Sunday finally arrived like a long-anticipated friend showing up to meet us. Fumi, our animated host, escorted us to the cemetery, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. He probably thought the ground would open up and swallow us all for my even thinking about communicating with the samurai.

  Sengakuji is a majestic site, full of history, with an air of importance and beauty. The day was warm and lovely with a slightly ominous feeling in the air. Joe and our girls were expecting just about anything to happen, as they had travelled with me often and knew that I was a tour guide for the past.

  We had barely entered the grounds when a petite Japanese woman came running towards us, seemingly frantic, waving her arms so furiously that even Fumi was taken aback (and he knew the language she spoke). We were at a disadvantage and felt like we were being rushed by a small woman with a message and a wild look in her eyes. I thought somebody needed the Heimlich manoeuvre or something, so I was prepared for an emergency situation to be thrust upon us. Judging from her demeanour, there was something urgent going on. It turned out that the woman was the wife of the head priest, and she knew Mari very well, so she was wrangling us in for tea and cookies. Mari had told her in advance that we were coming. Wow! Both a relief and a surprise. We were happy to oblige. Just as we sat down, Mari walked in and I stood to give her a hello hug. After the tea, we thanked the kind and lively woman for her generosity and embarked on our stroll through the headstones of the 47 Ronin samurai.

  We purchased some incense to burn for the samurai, and my girls were very comfortable taking part in this ritual. It was a multifaceted experience. ‘Ronin’ means ‘they are without a lord to follow’. The story goes that in the early eighteenth century a group of samurai were left leaderless after their feudal lord was forced to commit ritual suicide for assaulting a court officer. After patiently planning for two years, the samurai avenged their master’s death, but in turn were themselves forced to commit ritual suicide. It was really sad that the Ronin had died in such a way, but at the same time the honour and valour they displayed were admirable. It was one of those moments where you want to kneel down and bow your head, but you can’t put into words why.

  I asked Joe and the girls to give me some time alone, so that I could absorb the feeling around the samurai and write down the impressions that I got in the cemetery. I closed my eyes and placed my hand on a large headstone. I saw a samurai appear on a horse, and he pointed to a place above the Ronin cemetery, further up a hill. He told me that all of the samurai were not with him, some of them were missing, and they were up there. I also got the impression that the Ronin Warriors may have been buried previously on the hill, so I wasn’t sure if they were up there or not. It was a little confusing to me.

  I know some of you might wonder how the samurai could communicate with me, since he spoke Japanese. I think he, too, had someone on the other side acting as sort of an interpreter, making it possible for me to understand him. I know when very young people die, I have to ask an older generation to help bring through the child. They sometimes have to speak for them or ‘lend’ them their energy, so that’s another type of interpreter situation. Also, the dead can make me feel what they felt, and are capable of showing me visions of what happened to and around them, for me to put into words and relay to the living, which makes me a sort of interpreter myself.

  The samurai showed me a vision of women falling to their knees in the streets, sobbing and begging for their men back. He told me that they died for political reasons, and that they didn’t have to die. He said they were ‘the guardians of the temple’, which I took to mean the Buddhist temple on the grounds. As Joe and I were leaving the cemetery, I told Joe that my stomach hurt pretty bad, and I felt nauseous. Joe explained that when the samurai died, they did so by disembowelment, and that could explain my stomach pains.

  We continued to a museum on the grounds where they housed the actual chain armour and relics of the samurai. The girls were walking around taking in the history and the beautiful relics. Then my oldest daughter came up to Joe, complaining of stomach pains—not a big surprise. After a brief explanation to her, we set out to see the second museum on the grounds.

  We met up again with Mari and her cousin as we walked through sculptures of the 47 Ronin Warriors. I pointed to one who was wearing a uniform that looked like the one worn by the samurai on the horse. At first, Mari was taken aback by what I said. Then she explained that the particular outfit I had pointed out was the one worn when the samurai take their life when sentenced to death. It’s seen as honourable. Also, in order to be a samurai, you have to be born into the clan, so it’s also seen as their duty.

  I shared the rest of the samurai’s information with Mari, and she told me that before they avenged the death of their slain lord, the samurai had divorced their wives and left their families to try to save them from political as well as social persecution. One samurai even courted and married the daughter of the architect of the enemy’s palace to gain the blueprint of the palace for the attack. Another Ronin Warrior acted as a drunk who was always at the local pub. He was often spat on by villagers for being a disgrace to the samurai.

  When the Ronin Warriors had ultimately carried out their vengeance, and their families realised the sacrifice their men had made for their lord as well as their families, the women were beside themselves. This would account for the vision the samurai showed me of the women falling to their knees and sobbing. One of the men who spat on the drunk samurai impaled himself out of shame for doubting the warrior’s honour.

  We walked back to the office where we had begun our tour with tea and cookies, and I thanked the priest’s wife for her hospitality—in Japanese, of course: ‘Domo arigato!’ (I had picked up a little Japanese through all of my interviews and from a book called Japanese for Dummies.)

  Mari then asked the priest’s wife if she knew the answers to the rest of the samurai’s messages to me. She didn’t, but
stated that there was a groundskeeper who had been there longer than she had, so they summoned him. He was a wonderful energy. He felt like a combination of the earth and sky, grounding yet full of dreams and possibilities. He was very helpful, and said that there were three members of the samurai clan who were still buried up on the hill where the samurai had indicated. In addition to that, he told us that long ago all of the samurai had been buried up there and later moved to their memorial. Everyone else was f loored. I was just glad that I had conveyed the messages clearly. I’m a stickler for that, and getting confirmation of our information kind of scratches an itch for mediums.

  I know that I am not the only person who has interacted with the samurai since their tragic yet noble deaths. Think of all of the children who have walked the same steps that I have. They see what I see . . . they just aren’t always heard. ‘Hey, Mummy! Look at the samurai in the green uniform.’

  ‘Yeah, honey, that’s nice. Hurry up now.’

  So, if you’re a parent, listen up, because kids often have messages. Remember, it wasn’t so long ago that it was thought impossible for a man to walk on the moon or to have a phone without a cord . . . After all, it’s what the eye 193 hasn’t seen, but the mind has created, that becomes a reality that has been there all along.

  When we left for the airport to go home, our girls were misty-eyed. They had grown so attached to their security guards and Fumi. They loved Tokyo and wanted to stay. I couldn’t blame them—it was an extraordinary place. My two youngest talked about the giant beetles at the toy store that Japanese children buy to wrestle their friends’ beetles. Yes, real beetles, and, yes, they play with them like toys. Wow! I love being immersed in different cultures. My daughters also drank a lot of tea and participated in a Japanese tea ceremony, learning mutual respect.