Towards White

by Zena Shapter

  “I can tell you and Mark have been talking alright,” I say, struggling with my leg. Anna puts her arm around my waist to help. “Mark would argue people have centred their lives around their bodies’ electrical energy for centuries, only they never knew that’s what they were doing, not scientifically.”

  He used to say that, without science providing the correct terminology, people had simply believed their electrical energy to be a mystical force. When he first told me the different names mankind had given this mystical force over the centuries, I was astounded by the consistency of belief across the world. In Reiki they call it ‘Ki’, in Chinese ‘Chi’, in Sanskrit ‘Prana’, in Hawaiian ‘Ti’ or ‘Ki’, in Christianity ‘Holy Spirit’ or ‘Holy Ghost’, in Hebrew ‘ruach’, in Islam ‘Created Spirit’, in Rastafarianism ‘Hola’, in Greek ‘pneuma’… Mark wanted his thesis to unite man’s spiritual beliefs under the truth science was now in the process of revealing. I never had the courage to tell him that mankind and science might both be wrong.

  “Sometimes,” Anna continues, turning into the street behind The Himinn, “man searches for truth in the right spot. What was it Mark used to say about life after death? Anything is—”

  “Anything is possible.” It was his answer to everything.

  “The auroras’ electrified particles must carry our angels to heaven,” she adds, “and bring our children to earth, because we sense it and because it makes sense. And what we sense is that our loved ones watch over us. Promise me you will not leave Ísland without seeing the auroras?”

  “Okay. But Mark was wrong about the light.” I want to swallow back my words but it’s too late. I’ve said them and I have no idea why. “I mean he might be wrong, some people might not see any light when they die.” I’ve kept this thought to myself for years—that lonely night years ago, I didn’t see any light. Nothing reached for me in that dizzy half-dead world. Nothing called me towards anything. There were only muffled sounds, voices cutting through the haze, a vibration beneath me, the ceiling of the ambulance…then everything went blank. Plain nothingness. Empty void. Vacant…white.

  Still, that didn’t mean to say there couldn’t be light for everybody else. I hope Anna glosses over my comment.

  She’s straight on it. “Mark told me about you. He said you never spoke about what it was like, when you were…unconscious.”

  Because I didn’t want him knowing, it would only have upset him.

  I shrug. “I don’t really remember it,” I lie. I don’t want to upset Anna either. People have a right to their beliefs, however misguided. “I didn’t tell Mark about it because it was hard for him, that night. Why bring it up?” Besides, I moved on. I was never going to treat life with such disrespect again, no matter what. That was the only consequence Mark needed to know.

  Anna’s voice drops to a whisper as we approach the house bordering her garden. There are lights on downstairs now. “You’re as damn practical as he said you were.”

  “He said that?”

  “He said when you decided to switch professions and move to London, you quit your job, were packed and on a plane before he’d even had a chance to second-guess you. I think Mark wanted to be more like you.”

  “Stubborn?”

  “Determined. Becky, I think you should go to the Litrúm-Hús tomorrow morning, see what Mark saw and take a look at the Sannlitró-Völva—not because it has anything to do with anyone’s negligence, but because Mark would want you to know what he was doing here.”

  “You’re the second person to suggest that.”

  “He’d want you to understand about the battlelights, about where he is now and the water. He’s communicating with you, Becky, sending electrical pulses into your brain to tell you things. Ólaf was going to show him around before he died, but then Ólaf didn’t get back from Akureyri in time. I’m sure he’d happily show you instead?”

  I remember Mark describing his visits to Höfkállur’s Litrúm-Hús in previous messages. “I thought Mark did take a look around the Litrúm-Hús?”

  “He did,” Anna climbs back over her fence, “but never with Ólaf, never behind the scenes.”

  Chapter 10

  As I struggle over Anna’s garden fence, she tells me more about Ólaf and Höfkállur’s Litrúm-Hús, until a car engine slows to a stop outside The Himinn. Our conversation stops.

  Anna’s eyes widen. “Quick, that’s Jón!” She helps me over the fence then jogs to her back door, waves at me to hurry.

  I don’t need any encouragement. Jón might not be the man who threatened me, it’s likely no longer a secret I was at the morgue, but I still want to get upstairs before he arrives.

  A car door slams as Anna shuts the back door behind me. I race upstairs though only manage to get halfway before the front door opens.

  “Miss Dales?” Jón calls out.

  I turn. “Halló, Officer Jón.”

  Showing me one of his charming smiles, he holds up a brown satchel and wiggles it in the air. We meet at the bottom of the staircase. “Okay?” he asks, handing it over.

  “Yes. I mean, já. Takk.”

  Anna emerges from the kitchen, grinning and opening her arms to Jón. While they gush Icelandic greetings to each other, I creep back up the stairs. Despite everything she said earlier, she seems happy to see him.

  Before I reach the top, Anna calls after me. “Becky! Jón says he’s taken over watching the house from Gunnar. That’s where Gunnar went, to collect Jón. Jón has dropped him home.” She means it to reassure me. “He also says he’s made a list of everything in Mark’s backpack, in case you want to know exactly what’s in there without having to go through it.”

  “Oh, okay. Thank you.” I give Jón as much of a smile as I can.

  Jón whispers something to Anna.

  “Oh,” she calls to me, “and he put Mark’s wallet in there too, because he thought you might want to keep it safe. There’s some money in it and photos.” Jón whispers again. “As well as credit cards and driving license.”

  “Very thoughtful.” I smile again.

  As Anna translates, Jón’s eyes glimmer with pride. “Gott,” he says.

  “Okay then,” I say, glad Jón is clearly not tempersome this evening. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’ll phone you-know-who,” Anna says, stepping towards the staircase to speak in a hushed tone, “and ask them to show you around the you-know-where tomorrow.”

  She means Ólaf and the Litrúm-Hús. But why is she avoiding use of the words in front of Jón? “Is there something in particular you want me to see there?”

  “The machine, what it does, what it means. We’ll speak in the morning.” She glances at Jón.

  I’m happy to take the hint. Jón is playing with Anna’s hair, gazing at her as if she’s a dazzling angel. There’s no way she’ll be able to resist that. Jón is here for the night. Clutching Mark’s satchel to my chest, I turn and climb the stairs.

  Gusts of night-chilled air shudder the outside of the windows as I open the bedroom door. I lock it behind me; search the pools of light cast by streetlamps for Gunnar’s black sedan. It isn’t opposite The Himinn anymore. It’s parked in Anna’s driveway and it’s empty.

  I draw the blinds and switch on the light. After finding my charger, I plug in my phone and, once I’ve washed my hands and face, turn it back on. Then I sink into one of the pink leather armchairs with my reading glasses and rest my neck on the back of the seat. My mind feels heavy and worn. My stomach feels flat and tight with emptiness, though it’s aching in protest as it always does, and my thigh throbs to remind me it still needs care. I should have a shower but can’t wait to look through Mark’s things. I lift my leg onto the coffee table and hold his satchel close to my chest. Inside are his thesis notes. It’s been a while since I’ve been this close to them.

  The last time was at
my parents’ home in Sydney. Mum and Dad had gone to the movies. Mark was curled up on the sofa watching a Star Trek spin-off, some science book on his lap. I remember being at the dining table on the other side of the room, browsing the Internet for a fresh start—somewhere I could still use my legal qualifications, but where frustrated lawyers wouldn’t exhaust and drag me down into a place where I couldn’t cope when life threw me a curve ball.

  I think some crewmember must have died on the television because Mark began probing me again about death. He wanted to know what I’d seen in the ambulance that time, when he’d watched me die. For three full minutes I was technically dead. He was sure I must have seen something, just as he was certain our brains’ electrical energies amassed after we died, uniting our combined wisdoms, then existing as a kind of collective god before being re-born or recycled. I remember his certainty annoying me—no one would ever have all the answers.

  He said something about not wanting all the answers, only one—he wanted to know if I’d seen anything to confirm his theory. He brought his thesis notes over to the table.

  “People have to realise who God is, Bex. It’s us. It always has been. If people understood that, if they based their beliefs on scientific fact rather than random myths dreamed up centuries ago, they’d stop waging war in God’s name.”

  I remember saying something about science relying on as many assumptions as religion did myths. A strong belief in either was fanaticism.

  What he said next stuck with me. “Good point.” He paused, thinking something through. “And I suppose a scientific explanation doesn’t mean you can’t still wonder at why we’re here, or have faith that there might be a higher purpose for our being…”

  “Exactly.”

  “…or ask where all the atoms and energy and contemplations came from before they big-banged into our world. It doesn’t mean we still can’t value humanity’s freedom to wonder and suppose. I do, I guess. Hmm. Good point. Thanks, Bex.” Then he went back to the sofa and made some notes.

  I sigh at the memory then open Mark’s satchel. Maybe I’ll find the notes he made that night. I pull out his wallet first, check its contents. Like Jón said there’s some cash inside, Mark’s various cards and some photos. I know I shouldn’t look at the photos, they’re bound to upset me, but curiosity has never been something I can control.

  The first photo is of the two of us at my graduation from law school. The fact that it was taken by Riley would usually upset me yet, looking at Mark’s face, I don’t rush it away. Instead I stroke the glossy film. When my doorbell rang on the morning of my graduation, and I opened my door to a delivery man with a bouquet of flowers, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have a boyfriend as considerate as Riley. Of course, when I opened and read the accompanying card, I realised instead how lucky I was to have a brother as considerate as Mark.

  The next two photos are of us with Mum and Dad, one taken on Mark’s twenty-first birthday, and one on mine. We look so young, so powerful with the freedom of an uncharted life before us.

  In the last photo, it’s Mark and me standing on Manly Beach holding our PADI diving certificates. We were always good swimmers as kids but, after Riley, Mark suggested we learn scuba diving together. He was the one who got me into it. In a way he not only saved my life, he changed it too. Becoming an adventure diver helped to restore what confidence I’d lost, made me realise there’s more to life than recovering from curve balls.

  I tuck the photos inside my own wallet, stow Mark’s wallet in my suitcase, then trawl through his research papers, searching for a reason, a hint, anything that might explain why he went hiking instead of phoning me that weekend. Instead, all I find are more memories.

  There is the spreadsheet he showed me that night at Mum and Dad’s house, listing all the references suggesting mankind has long known our brains’ energies form or join into ‘god’ after death. Gurus in the Yogic tradition talk of connecting with a collective energy when they meditate, of God dwelling within us. “The kingdom of God is within you,” said Jesus. “Ye are gods,” is both a hermetic aphorism and a line from Psalms 82. Taoists believe that man can gain knowledge of the universe by first understanding himself, and vice versa. Christians, Muslims and Jews all over the world believe they physically connect with God when they die.

  Next I find Mark’s notes on the Sannlitró-Völva machine. Now I’m reading through his papers, I remember more about the machine from Mark’s emails. I reach for my still-charging phone and jot down some of the details I’ve forgotten, ready for when I’m with Ólaf. While I’m at it, I write down some of the things people have told me today about the Heimspeki and the Litrúm-Hús. There’s so much to take in, and I do want to understand what Mark was doing here.

  Next, I recognise Mark’s synopsis of man’s relationship with electricity.

  “People seriously overlook the intimacy of our relationship with electricity,” he said that night in Sydney, munching on a double chocolate Tim Tam. “Despite the fact we have electricity running though our bodies, despite the fact we ourselves produce electricity.”

  Glancing over his summary, I’m still impressed by the depth of his analysis. When humans get an electric shock, they overcharge like any electrical appliance and their bodies short-circuit—whether that’s momentarily as when touching wet electric sockets, or permanently as with electric chairs. Yet humans also need electricity to function. We use defibrillators to re-start hearts, and we define death as the absence of electricity from our brains. Acupuncture has been known for centuries for its ability to stimulate the flow of our bodies’ electric currents, its use is endorsed by the World Health Organisation. Yet we still resist the importance of electricity in our lives.

  Mark’s arguments, on the other hand, are so thorough they make me feel I should isolate myself in some mountaintop temple and contemplate the exact electrical equilibrium I need to attain before I die.

  Pulling out the last wodge of stapled paper from Mark’s briefcase, I’m disappointed not to find a printout of his completed thesis among them. I’ve read some of it, mainly the beginning, but nothing he’s written recently. There’s only a printout of an email he sent to his university professor last week, attaching his thesis electronically and promising to append a new pedagogical postscript in a couple of weeks.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I mumble to myself.

  If Mark already sent his thesis to his professor, why did he want to talk to me about its conclusions? I read the printout again, pausing on his reference to a pedagogical postscript. I look back through his notes.

  There’s one page headed ‘proof’ that I don’t recognise. It describes how proof can exist without our seeing it, in the same way we can look at the ocean and only see blue, whereas really there’s red and purple coral beneath its surface, rainbow fish glittering with colour, green and yellow seaweed, orange starfish, etc. The notes go on to say there are more things in the world than any single person can both see and know. Yet most individuals don’t seek proof that all those things exist because they believe and rely on the other people who have seen them. In those things then, at least, they have faith.

  Still, there’s nothing in the notes about any pedagogical postscript.

  There’s another page too, with some random thoughts scrawled across it at different angles, as if Mark wrote them at different times. One note mentions Director Úlfar’s Sannlitró-Völva machine, that it’s a lot more than a lie-detection machine. The details make me think he must have seen it in action. Another note mentions me. It talks about Heimspeki followers being one hundred per cent committed to maintaining their positive energy, despite ‘what Becky said the other week about human nature’. I have no idea what I said the other week about human nature but hope it will come to me. Then I see it, his first mention of any postscript.

  ‘Of course,’ he writes. ‘I have to admit now there are those occasional few�
��the people who simply can’t help themselves. That’s why, in a way, my postscript will be more important than the thesis itself. Secularity doesn’t matter. Energy. The numinous. It’s both, together. I knew anything was possible! We need both. We need to be various.’

  I recognise parts of that note from what Mark said to me last weekend, though don’t understand what he means by his postscript being more important than his thesis. He’s been working on his thesis for years, yet has only been in Iceland a few months. What could have changed his mind?

  Making a mental note to ask Anna what she knows tomorrow, I shuffle and refile Mark’s papers, fold away my reading glasses. My phone bleeps. At first I think it’s letting me know it’s finished charging, then I realise it’s received a message. Expecting it to be from Doctor Emil, I’m surprised to see the image of a skinny young man wearing a crumbled white lab coat opposite the name ‘Gunnar Eyjólfsson’. There’s a voice message attached. Two voices greet me when I open it. The first is the quivering voice of a young man. The other is a Word2Word translator turning his sorrowful voice into English.

  “Miss Dales, this is Gunnar Eyjólfsson, Doctor Emil’s assistant. Doctor Emil got your message and contacted me about your brother’s autopsy report. I am very sorry the report did not list your brother’s head trauma. I did record it when examining your brother’s body but I used a microphone to make my observations and obviously didn’t type it up properly when I wrote the actual report. I have been very busy with other things this week. Of course that is no excuse. As you already know, your brother did indeed injure his head after he fell in the river. I have listened again to my observations and amended his autopsy report accordingly. Everything is included now. I attach a fresh copy.