Splash looked particularly good this morning. It is not unusual to see him arrayed in costume- at least on weekends. He adjusted some of the brass buttons on his tunic as he sat on one of the more elevated stone around the Fire Ring.

The choice of stone reflected his mood, since it put him literally inches above the other members of the Writer’s Section. Sometimes he chooses different garb, and a lower stone to reflect his mood. We like the consistency of his selection on seating arrangements, since we can judge what is to come. This morning, it seemed appropriate to prepare for something a little more regal than usual. Loma fumbled to produce a clear bottle half filled with an amber liquid from the pocket of his hunting vest and tipped some of the contents into his second cup of morning java. Suitably prepared, he asked Splash what the hell he was up to this morning.

“Comfort. It is the season the temperatures come down, and sleeping outdoors requires a little extra covering.”

“So, we don’t have to address you as Bonaparte this morning?”

“Of course you may, should you choose. But there is discussion in progress about the mutability of the human spirit, and the possibility that there is more to the birth-life-death process than we are prepared to accept.”

“Like what? When you die, you die.” Rocket seemed a little grumpy, which is not unusual on a Saturday Morning following a vigorous engagement with Friday’s evening. There were some slightly morose nods around the circle, which DeMille noted with his customary scan to ascertain the morning mood.

“There are some other aspects to the process that are not readily explained,” he said. From his own more sensible quilted coat with the deep pockets for game he produced a thin volume which he raised for examination. “Soul Survivor. You ought to check it out. A two-year old boy appears to remember the last events of someone else’s life.”

Being dragged so resolutely from Splash’s relatively pedestrian hallucinations into something much more curious was a lurch. The skies reflected a certain ambivalence nicely- partly gray, uncertain in direction. Splash peered closely at the book in DeMille’s grasp. He adjusted his sword to permit a closer examination and then his comic circular glasses. “What the…”

DeMille put the book down on the stone next to him, away from the low flames. “This is the story of James Leininger, who– a little more than two weeks after his second birthday– began having blood-curdling nightmares that just wouldn’t stop. When little James began screaming out phrases like, “Plane on fire! Little man can’t get out!”

“That would be troubling for many parents,” said Loma. “When we were raising kids we tried to encourage them to express their feelings.”

“True. But this is the sort of detail quite unusual to find in little kids.”

DeMille nodded. “The Leininger parents began to realize that they had an unusual situation on their hands, and that their son was reliving the past life of a World War II fighter pilot named James Huston. Their son could not possibly have known the name of the ship he flew from, nor the names of men who had served with him.”

“We grew up with all those newsreels of the war when we were growing up. They hadn’t replaced the morning shows with more acceptable cartoon images like they have today.”

More nods around the circle. A couple frowns and some grins. “So, you are saying we may have to go through all this again?”

Splash frowned, since the subject had moved away from his direct interest. He adjusted his sword again with contemplation. “I imagine the parents had some thinking to do about what was happening to their family.”

Rocket stood up. “I had a pal who was with a woman he loved when she passed. Natural causes, but intensely emotional in the nature of her passing. He said it was an electrifying moment that carried something distinct and real in her departure. A presence that was palpable. Something with an actual presence.”

“I will read the book when DeMille is done with it,” said Rocket. “This is an interesting aspect about the nature of the end of our participation in the big costume drama.”

“And a look at something that has inspired human beings for a very long time,” said DeMille. “It is worth consideration, now that we are all approaching the voyage to the other side.”

Splash rose and confronted Rocket. He carefully unbelted his sword and presented it to him at port arms. Rocket accepted the gift with equanimity. “Glad we cleared all that up.” Splash then lowered himself back to his stone, still a little elevated above the rest still seated. “Maybe we ought to talk about lunch.”

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