De L'Ester: Madame, do you now see clearly? And are you not at all alarmed?
Sara: I see quite distinctly, and am not at all alarmed.
—Sara Weiss, Journeys to the Planet Mars (1903), page 8
St. Louis May 1899
You may recall that this was the day when I announced that my spirit had been borne to the planet Mars. Not every husband would react as Adolphe did, with delight and curiosity rather than surprise or alarm. After I told him, he put down his newspaper, leaned forward, and insisted, “You must tell me all about it!”
I sat down across from him in my parlor chair and adjusted my skirts. “It was most sudden. I had briefly closed my eyes for a rest when I felt a presence. I gradually became aware of a man’s voice. He told me he was a Frenchman named De L’Ester, and that he had died many years ago. He says he is a leader of a group of spirits who have identified me as a powerful Medium. This spirit band will accompany my awareness to Mars—whose people call their planet Ento—while my body remains behind. He said I was tasked with a special mission that will take many weeks and will test my endurance.”
Our housekeeper Vena was listening to all this from the doorway, dumbfounded while holding our tray of afternoon tea. I gestured for her to put her things down and stop gawking at me. She had only been in our employ for a few months and was no doubt wondering if she had made a mistake.
“Did you see this spirit?” Adolphe asked, rapt. “What did he look like?”
“I cannot describe him in any physical sense. He told me that the name for my condition was ‘devitalization’, a kind of trance. I remember everything that was said perfectly, but very little about what I saw.”
“Go on.”
I sighed with deliberate drama. “There is not much more I can tell. I know that I traveled to Mars, but there is no image or recollection fixed in my mind about it. This process of devitalization has tired me, but my spirit guide said I should make preparations for future visits.” I raised my hand to preempt my husband’s next question. “I do not know anything about the nature of the mission yet. That too will be revealed to me in time.”
Adolphe was on the literal edge of his seat with excitement. “This is your most profound experience as a Medium yet! What preparations must we make?” Here he gestured to include Vena, whose expression suggested she would prefer not to be involved.
“Two days from now, I am to be left undisturbed in my room for several hours. De L’Ester said that my health would be endangered by any interruption during this period, and that I should even lock the door from the inside. I will meet the other members of this band of spirits, and then we will travel to Mars to learn the history of the planet and to speak to the people of Ento. This process will repeat for many months.”
“Extraordinary,” he murmured.
“To aid with my recall, certain spirits will guide me in writing and drawing what I observe. This is what I apparently saw today, though now I have only the faintest impression in my mind.” I removed a folded sheet of paper from my skirts and showed him the sketch: a bright and cheerful aquatic flower I said I observed along a Martian lakeshore*.*
“May I tell the rest of the Association about this?” Adolphe asked.
I was anticipating this. “I know that our fellow Spiritualists will find great interest in my experience, but I would prefer we keep it to ourselves for a time—until I better understand my mission.”
I knew I could not prevent word of this from spreading, as any evidence in favor of life after death would be eagerly devoured by our friends. I only hoped to buy myself some time to write in peace.
Adolphe, who loves me always, agreed, though no doubt he was anxious to share this news. I would not say more on the matter to him, and directed Vena to at last serve the tea. She did so with great relief, but from that day on she would always look at me with wariness. In her position I would feel no different.
That Thursday, as scheduled, I ascended to my study and latched the door. I rattled the lock to be sure they could hear it. Though Adolphe had said that he believed my account, I have given him cause to worry about my mental state in years past, when grief had overtaken me. I reassured him that this time I felt entirely at ease.
Indeed, I always find relief in my well-lit private space. The sun was just beginning to stream through the west window in the late afternoon, my favorite time of day. No one else in our household can tolerate this room in the heat of summer, but a space can never be too sunny or too warm for me. I remember that May day as warm, not yet humid, and how shadows crept across the floor as I worked.
I sat at my writing desk and opened its drawer. Inside were rows of colored pencils that I’d bought at the stationer’s on Olive Street. I took up a simple black pencil and a sheet of everyday paper.
I began to sketch another flower, tentatively at first as I was drawing only from my imagination. Soon my movements became fluid and the graceful curving lines burst forth like vine tendrils seeking an anchor. I am always a bit awed by what comes from my own hand, even if it is no great work of art. When I draw, every part of my body is light, unbound.
I drew a spray of flowers bearing pear-shaped leaves fanning out from a central point. I selected other pencils and filled the lines with color: emerald for leaves and blue and purple flowers, picturing the springtime violets outside that had already faded to make way for summer’s bounty.
Beneath the sketch I paused and then, recalling a fanciful name from my childhood, gave my creation its title: Ruvacca̤ plimos.
I took out a second sheet of paper, and with an ordinary writing pencil began to describe this imaginary plant and its community in words: how it grows only in the margins of a great world-spanning canal on a faraway world. I kept writing, imagining the men and women who dug it, this canal that brought life to a dead land and hope to a hopeless people. I invented their names, their ancestries, the towns and villages in which they were born and died. With pencil in hand I could picture it all and shape it into a story.
I wrote for hours and stopped only when my pencil was so dull that I could hardly read what I’d just put to paper. Once again I was aware of the sounds of the house, all the clocks ticking just a bit out of time and then a slam of the door, likely Vena coming back from shopping for dinner. I hid my drafts and sketches, as I would not share them again until my account was complete.
Over the weeks that followed I revealed to my husband the nature of my mission: I am a vessel, I said, for spirits who carry my awareness to the planet Mars while my body remains in my room. I am accompanied by the famous dead, but also family members we have lost. I am to reveal to the peoples of Earth and Mars the truth of our mutual existence. I said, I have learned that we are all under the care of an infinite intelligence that watches over us in life and after death. My message is that when we pass on, it is not the end, and that we will be welcomed by all those who have passed on before us. I said that during these sessions, my hands move without my control and are under the direction of writers and artists of an earlier age. The spirits have directed me to complete and then publish this work as a book, so their message can be delivered to all of Earth’s people.
Adolphe believed me then and believes this now, all without question, because he is a Spiritualist of the highest conviction. He believes that I am one as well, an old white lie in which I have found myself trapped. I hope you will see, in these pages, why I could be forgiven for this lie, and that I tell this fanciful story of Mars out of an abundance of love.