Paul’s understanding that Ru-Ah was an American Indian began to make a strange kind of sense now. Paul was actually starting to believe, starting to take it seriously. It terrified and yet excited him.
At times, Paul tried to visualize flames emitting from his fingertips. The best he could achieve was an imaginary (he thought) glow. Lemu told him this was progress and that he must keep at it. The trek leader showed no other interest in Paul’s experiences and didn’t question him about them. It was as if he had understood instinctively and implicitly.
When they finally arrived back in Kathmandu Paul was overjoyed to see Kate again. He was filled with love for her. He hadn’t been aware at the time, but something had entered into him in the mountains. It was a kind of protective force that would always be with him and he understood then that Lemu’s simple message regarding the Seven Rays, the disc, the hidden valley and its rough location in the Sierra Madre in Peru had been more than enough. Lemu did not know much more about this supposed brotherhood than he had told him. Sure, they had discussed Buddhism and angels and revelation and religion while sitting around the evening campfire but it was clear that the Nepali regarded himself simply as a messenger and that the message could only be fully understood and appreciated if presented in the Himalayas. It needed the spiritual presence of the mountains and the energy forms that existed there to combine together. They chewed over the concept of vibratory impulses, talked about the Incas, who were a comparatively late civilization on Earth, being only in power for one hundred years during the sixteenth century. There had clearly been repositories of mystical information on Earth since history began and that the Incas fulfilled that role. They had no formal language so Paul could quite believe that knowledge might be stored in some other form. The secret valley intrigued him.
Lemu hosted a farewell meal for the group before it broke up and everyone went their separate ways the following day. Kate had been happy to recover at the hotel and go shopping. They were both ready to head home.
Before they departed, Paul took Lemu to one side and tried to think of something appropriate to say by way of farewell. As if reading his mind, Lemu popped a business card into Paul’s top pocket.
“In case you want to contact me. Maybe you will come back. None of us knows what will happen. Remember to practice the technique I taught you. It will work for you, I know it will. You are special Paul because you have something very special to look forward to. There are many of us all over the world in just such a position as you – not knowing the real truth behind strange events but only being able to sense it. Whatever the outcome, all we can do is what we can do.”
The two men hugged each other.
“Goodbye, Paul,” said Lemu sadly.
“Goodbye, Mr Lemu,” said Paul.
They turned and separated. Paul looked back and already the little Nepali had vanished into the gloom of a Kathmandu evening.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A life saved and a writer found
Some time in the future
Funerals had always depressed Paul and today was particularly upsetting because it was the final chord and curtain call for a friend he had known for twenty years.
Strangely enough, death did not seem to have the same feeling of permanence that it used to. At least, this was true of the deaths of other people. When it came to his own inevitable demise, it might still be an entirely different matter. The jury was still out on that one.
Jack had been part of Paul’s other life. They had played in bands together, written songs together and dreamed of fame together. Jack’s early and surprising death from prostate cancer had jolted Paul more than he cared to admit.
They had drifted apart in recent years but still kept in touch, still half believing in the dream. So when Paul stood in the small church for the final farewell and service he hardly knew anyone there. Only one, somewhat dishevelled, figure at the front seemed familiar.
Outside, it was one of those dank and damp days that seem to befit funerals, conveying a sense of finality and farewell but with the prospect of rebirth. The open maw of the grave plunged into the dark, dismal earth, into an abyss all would one day enter. A protective cordon of flowers and wreaths surrounded the grave.
Paul stood at the back and nodded to Jack’s wife Kerry whom he had met once or twice. He recognized Jack’s son Harry, by his first marriage who smiled weakly back at him.
People spoke about Jack and his never-say-die attitude to life, an approach Paul envied and could never emulate. Someone sang ‘AbideWith Me’, and then an unaccompanied version of Queen’s ‘These Are The Days Of Our Life’. Harry sang the final song, and it was one that Jack and Paul had written together, ‘Lonely Nights’. Paul was surprised, touched and moved to tears when he heard the wavering voice almost reciting the long-forgotten lyrics. It was moving and as they turned to file outside to witness the burial Paul recognized the figure at the front. It was Roscoe. Paul hadn’t seen him for fifteen years or more. Roscoe had been part of their band, ‘Lost Highway’, and played keyboards. He had been Paul’s mentor in the early days because of his rock and roll past and pedigree until his brain had became addled by the sheer volume of drugs he was putting into his system. Like Malone, Roscoe had a mystical and transcendental aura and had been the first person to introduce Paul to the Sufis, the Caballa, Rosicrucianism, Aleister Crowley, Gurdjieff and Thomas Aquinas. Paul regarded him as a person of mythic proportions.
He was shocked to see him now. He had thought he must be dead. He looked a little haggard and his once flowing golden locks of hair had been trimmed to a spare stubble – but it was Roscoe all right.
Paul joined the flow of mourners and went outside close to the grave. He hugged Kerry and Harry and whispered his condolences. He felt his eyes prickle with tears when the casket carrying his old friend was lowered into grave.
“Comes to us all, does death,” said a hoarse voice behind him. Paul turned and there was Roscoe. They shook hands.
“How are you, Roscoe?” asked Paul.
“That’s a big question,” he answered. “Right now I don’t know how I am.”
“I know what you mean.”
“You’re looking good though. Still married to the same woman?”
“Yes,” said Paul. “Kate. Her name is Kate.”
“I remember Kate. Are you going to the celebration? Or maybe that’s not the right thing to call it. It’s really a celebration of Jack’s life and death, don’t you think.”
“Yes,” said Paul. “They were great days.”
“The best days of my life,” said Roscoe. “It’s been downhill ever since.”
“What are you up to these days?”
“I live on my wits,” came the reply. “And I don’t have many of those left.”
“Looks like everyone is heading off,” Paul looked around. “Do you need a lift?”
“Thanks,” said Roscoe. “I came here by bus.” He hunched his shoulders inside his overcoat and it was then that Paul noticed how threadbare and old his clothes were. And his shoes had been worn down to the heel.
A short time later they wee mingling with other mourners in a café bar. Kerry did not want the event to become maudlin. That wouldn’t have been Jack’s style. The public address system played some hits from the last few decades and some material recorded by ‘Lost Highway’. Paul listened to the old tracks with tears in his eyes. They could have been contenders, he smiled at the reference.
“We were good,” mumbled Roscoe as he shuffled over to Paul clutching a drink.
“Yes we were,” he agreed. “It’s a pity we could never get off the ground.”
“Too many egos,” said Roscoe. “Once you have egos involved it can either go ballistic or fall apart.”
Paul sighed.
“How long are you staying?” Roscoe asked him.
“Not too long.”
“Can you give me a lift?”
“Sure thing. We should say goodbye to Kerry and Harry.”
Paul had a strange feeling about Roscoe. Something didn’t feel right, didn’t fit. He was pretty sure Roscoe was clean and not still using. But there was a look in his eye. Something was missing but Paul could not put his finger on it.
Half-an-hour later the two had settled into Paul’s car for the drive back to the city. Roscoe spent most of the journey with his head sunk into his chest brooding. Suddenly he said.
“Let’s go to the bridge. Remember we had our band photographs taken from the top of the gorge?”
“Look, I really ought to be getting back.”
“Just for old times’ sake,” said Roscoe with a touch of bitterness. “We haven’t seen each other in years, man.”
Paul agreed and they took a detour that led them up and around narrow country lanes until they reached a remote point high above the river gorge and a little known viewpoint. It was deserted.
Paul parked and they walked to the edge of the gorge. There was a low wall and a protective fence that had been vandalized. It looked pretty dangerous to get too close. Below them the canyon dropped in a sheer cliff interspersed with vegetation and crooked trees. Further upstream stood the suspension bridge crossing the gorge, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.
They stood together for a long moment gazing out over the landscape with the bridge in the foreground and the heat haze of the city dominating the background. They were alone and lost in private thoughts. Then Roscoe said.
“Jack’s death has brought it home to me, Paul.”
“What do you mean?”
“Seeing you again today made up my mind.”
Roscoe was standing directly behind Paul who was a couple of steps from the broken barrier. Roscoe placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder.
“I have nothing to live for, Paul. Death, in the end, is the only true release. Don’t you see?”
There was a strange kind of menace in Roscoe’s voice. Paul could detect it. His old friend had obviously suffered. The hand resting on his shoulder was gentle but Paul could feel the heat from Roscoe’s palm through the fabric of his coat.
They had been close once. Roscoe was the kind of guy who could disappear out of your life and reappear years later to carry on the same conversation exactly where you had left off. And you would see nothing unusual about this. It was just Roscoe’s way.
Paul was unsure about the man who was standing directly behind him, almost pressing against him with one hand on his shoulder and the other buried in the deep recess of his overcoat pocket. Something told Paul it would be unwise to make any sudden movement.
He was doubly unsure as he stared down at the death drop to the river below. Later he remembered thinking someone should really repair this barrier. It was lethal. The gorge was deep. It was not the Grand Canyon or anything close to it but it was deep enough. You wouldn’t survive the fall. Roscoe spoke again, this time more softly, close to Paul’s ear and there was a tinge of deep despair in his voice.
“I don’t want to die alone, Paul” he whispered. “Jack’s gone. I don’t know where Al is but you and me, we’re here now. This is a Lost Highway reunion. It’s beautiful. Just you and me and Jack. You can see the sweetness of it can’t you, it’s pure symmetry. We can join Jack in paradise.”
Paul knew Roscoe was close to the edge but that he was even closer to the physical edge of the drop. If he made a false move and tried to get away, Roscoe could just push forward and they would be gone.
Inside, Paul panicked. He thought of Kate and the children and how he didn’t want to be without them.
“Hey, what are you talking about, Roscoe?” he said trying to turn away. Roscoe held firm. Paul saw then the glint of the knife concealed in his other hand inside his pocket.
“Look, Roscoe, I can tell you. It’s all going to change. Remember how we used to talk about how the world needed to stop in its tracks and start again? Well, it’s going to happen.”
“That’s an illusion or a lie,” replied Roscoe.
“No it’s not,” insisted Paul. “Roscoe, I know. I’ve been given a glimpse. All the belief systems in the world from Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Taoism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Sufis, Satanists, estoteric and magical cults will be as one with science and technology and man will develop new insights, a new oneness.”
“Excuse me if I puke,” scoffed Roscoe.
“You can’t die, Roscoe. Not here. Not like this. And not with me. What about all the beautiful things in the world? What about poetry, music and love? What about the great paintings? Remember that saying you taught me?” Paul ransacked his brain. Panic and fear unlocked his memory. “Love becomes perfect only when it transcends itself – becoming one with its object producing unity of being.”
Roscoe paused and thought. Paul delved further into his memory.
“I know,” he cried. “Remember this. ‘Our lives and souls are like a clear mirror. The body is the dust on top. Beauty is not perceived for we are under the dust.’ That’s an affirmation of life, Roscoe.”
“I remember,” he said.
“You knew hundreds of those,” Paul reminded him. “Think of all the Bodhisattvas who have walked the Earth. Think of John Lennon. Think of Nelson Mandela. Think of Van Gogh and Leonardo, oh my God, Leonardo, and Michaelangelo and Mozart and unknown masters living in remote parts of the world and of Lao Tzu?”
“That was then, this is now,” came the response.
“Look,” said Paul in desperation. “You might not believe this but I have been contacted by angels. I’m serious. I thought it was a joke or I was going nuts but I am sure it’s true. So much has happened exactly like they told me. I believe their prophecies.”
“Angels,” retorted Roscoe scornfully. “I’ve seen angels, man. They used to fly around my bed at night. And I had devils dancing on my feet. I’ve seen things, I’m telling you I’ve seen things.”
“I’m serious, Roscoe.” Paul tried to inch himself away but the other man had pressed them both even closer to the precipice. Roscoe was quite clearly mad, suicidally so.
“Then you know that death is not the end,” he said to Paul.
“I’m not sure about suicide,” said Paul. “Look, human beings will gain new insights into, well, everything – the nature of energy, the purpose of their life or lives, the oneness of creation. Spiritual won’t be a word used by religions or by so-called non-realists. It will be understood the way it ought to be, the way you used to talk about it.”
“I remember,” said Roscoe dreamily and he relaxed his pressure a little.
“What’s happened to you, Roscoe?” asked Paul. “What’s brought you to this?”
Roscoe did not reply at first. He seemed to be struggling and finding it difficult to speak. Paul felt a surge of love for this man, despite their precarious position. This was his friend from the past. They were not the same people anymore. That much was clear.
The situation they were in was not as simple as it seemed. Life and death; it wasn’t that clear. If he went over the edge, would the angels save him? If he was destined to fulfill a special destiny, how could he die? Then he remembered the dark force – the anti angelic side of the same coin. If he died, maybe another would just take his place. Maybe he was expendable. He was only able to discern one small aspect of this bizarre yet entirely feasible situation. Paul’s thoughts turned to Roscoe whom he discovered was weeping silently but bitterly on his shoulder. Slowly, he started to turn. Roscoe made no resistance. Then Paul was hugging his old friend and edging away from the danger zone. He took a deep breath and let the gagging and paralyzing fear escape.
“I always wanted a special destiny,” sobbed Roscoe trying to calm himself and gather himself together. “Nothing has gone right for me, man. No matter how hard I try to make good things happen in my life, I end up being kicked in the fucking teeth. I look at the future and it’s a blank. Then it was Jack. I just snapped, man, I just fucking snapped.”
“Remember the good things,” Paul whispered. “Remember Beethov
en’s Ninth. Remember Ravi Shankar. The signs are all around us. We’re just too blind and too self-obsessed to awaken from the dream. But that will change. I can’t tell you when because I am just a small part of it.”
It was an age before Roscoe replied. Paul was unaware that he had been weeping quietly.
“Your words have reached me, old buddy,” he managed to blurt out at last. “ It just seemed so perfect. When I saw you at Jack’s grave I dunno, I thought I’d cut my wrists over his coffin, you know, as I kind of bond between us; blood brothers in life and death. Guess I haven’t got the guts after all.”
Paul’s heartbeat had steadily lowered. His fingers touched the rough texture of Roscoe’s coat and he could smell the stale stench of fear, loneliness and pain. A picture of Romy flashed into his mind. Maybe her stress busting technique would help Roscoe?
They were still standing clasped together as night began to fall, two men wrapped in an embrace like stuttering dancers waltzing in an endless loop of time. Paul could see the energy flows around him, from the trees and rocks and billowing up from the tumbling water. In the distance the bridge curved like a bow made of silver and starlight. He could see the energy of their auras blending with the waves of energy around him and he could sense the flow fuelling the cosmos and all there was.
He had talked Roscoe out of committing suicide, at least for the moment. He felt good about this. He knew then that saving one life or expressing love for another human being was the key to existence in the egoless state. It could unlock the godlike super nature inside us all. He knew also with certainty that this intuitive, mystical or transcendental part of our natures would become truly powerful and perfectly normal. Saints and mystics would join forces with scientists and scholars. All would be one. All this Paul experienced in a kind of timeless trance while Roscoe’s sobs subsided. Paul hoped he had played some small part in bringing some peace to his friend’s soul and release his emotional turmoil.
An Angel on My Shoulder Page 25