It took me a while, but I finally communicated with my friend, Rabbit. Reaching the dead is not easy. While I had some practice at it over the years, I couldn’t safely say I was an expert. Finding the quiet time I needed wasn’t easy either. With all of the people traipsing through the house at all hours of the day and night searching for the treasure, any ectoplasm I conjured dissipated each time a door opened and a draft passed through.
I bet you want to know about the treasure. You are not alone. The hunt began about six months ago. Rabbit had gone on safari to Ethiopia. One day last October, he sold me his car for air fare, stuffed a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts in his backpack (he liked to go commando – made traveling light easier) mumbled something about gold between goodbyes and he was off on another adventure.
When I went to clean his room before Samhain Eve, I found the walls covered in maps and arcane symbols. I hadn’t a clue what they meant and didn’t want to know, if I could figure them out. Rabbit is a bit daffy.
Two days after Winter Solstice, he was back, tattoos on his face and hair halfway down his back. He locked himself in his room, refusing to eat and ranting during the night, mimicking the sounds of jungle animals. This went on for six days. On the morning of the seventh, he came downstairs to breakfast, showered and shaved, to show me pictures he had drawn of a golden treasure he had found and stolen in Africa. He hid it upon his return home.
I listened while he wolfed down buckwheat pancakes doused in melted butter and good Canadian maple syrup. His eyes looked as thick and viscous as the syrup that ran down his chin as he talked around his food. I worried about his sanity while he worried about cashing in his cache.
Once done filling his belly, Rabbit rose from the dinette table and came around to where I sat. He kissed me on the mouth, sweeter than usual, and thanked me for being such a good friend. He moved his lips to my ear, anchoring my hair to his chin like a fly caught on fly paper. He whispered that my good deeds would not go unpunished, laughed his insane-person laugh and skipped up the stairs to his bedroom.
When he didn’t come down the next day and I had heard no noises during the last 24 hours, I cracked the door to his room to check on him. He was dead as a door nail. His laptop sat on his dead lap. As his last living act, he had blogged about his expedition and his hidden treasure. I posted an update, letting the world know that Rabbit had moved on. That’s when the hunt began.
Now, six months later, I just wanted the keys to Rabbit’s car so I could get out of there. Once I tapped into the great beyond, Rabbit told me the keys were in the coffee can above the refrigerator and have a great time. I responded thanks and will do. I got the keys, grabbed my suitcases and went out to the garage. I opened the trunk to toss in my bags but there was no more room, what with all that gold in there.
Originally posted in 2010
