"Dunno mate," said John, with his arm around Belinda's shoulders. "Feels creepy, weird, somehow."
"Look, I don't know what's going on but, while we're here, we may as well make ourselves more normal," said Mary, her logical mind returning from sabbatical leave. "You need a shower first, Sam, so get cleaned up and I'll find some girly clothes for Halee and myself and then Ahmed can have his suit back. The rest of you just help yourselves to coffee, tea and food, whatever you want, huh?" Mary, Halee and Sam headed for the bedroom and bathroom.
"Yes thanks, Mary, I'd love a cup of tea," said Belinda, heading off to the kitchen. "Anyone else want one?"
"Jeez thanks but I could murder a fag," said Hone smiling hopefully.
"You want one of mine?" asked Angus.
"Thanks bro' and you're Angus?" asked Hone. Angus nodded and they shook hands.
"And you're Hone?" asked Hone.
"Yes," said John shaking Hone's hand.
"So you invite a brother in and don't even introduce him to the whanau, the family," said Hone, laughing and slapping John's back. "What kind of a M?ori are you, bro'?"
"Aah, bloody Rotorua M?oris always moan, Angus," said John, laughing. "Now get your brown behind outside for a smoke and I'll get some fresh air too."
"While the little wife stays in the kitchen!" yelled Belinda, laughing, as the men left.
"You may join us if you prefer," said Ahmed, gallantly.
"Thanks Ahmed, just joking," said Belinda. "Go and get some male bonding and I can have a peaceful cup of tea on my own. I could do with a little less drama for a minute or two."
Escape From Certainty
Wednesday, 15th March 2012, 4.00 p.m.
As his eyes drew a veil over a world both thoughtless and fearful, he relaxed into the glow of a home he'd never left. Behind him he left the pale and fading footprints of a dream he knew he'd dreamed but could not remember. As he quietly smiled himself into the growing light, he wondered if there had really had been a him, an Arthur Bayly, a dream, at all. His singularity grew into that ancient and massive oneness that encompassed and nurtured all.
The serenity powered through him as acceptance took his tentative hand to lead him deeper into the light of lights - the shadowless light of peace - which beckoned his heart to approach. As a long-lost son of a loving father, he was drawn to join and extend, to co-create in stillness. Where strength and gentleness met in oneness, he absorbed himself into their sweet and inviting light as his formless smile beamed its extension of acceptance and love, born in the eternal and growing light of forever.
With no doing to interrupt his creativity, he was free to be the ancient greatness he'd never not been ... just forgotten while he dreamed a dream now gone. Kindness seeped into him and showered forth in quiet beams of luminescence that warmed the soul of all he ever was.
Decisions rode gently through him and he was free to ride on them to where their creator imagined them to be. Choices were gone and, in their place, was certainty that all was done, all was deeply right and all was being done by stillness and silence. Had his soul a mouth and eyes it would have shed a smiling tear but, instead, he knew with relief, the struggleless life was upon him and it had ever been so.
Then a spark of specialness crept into his mind. A part of a dream returned; a decision to be unique and separate recalled itself and, as the decision was made it was unmade and a veil fell over that microsecond of timelessness, as he returned to the glow of the power and peace of oneness. This was where he belonged, out of time and space, out of control and fear, out of struggle and vanity.
He was in the deep sigh of unity, forever untouched and unmoved but the memory of that desire for separation and control let a small shard of ice slide through him. He tensed himself, fearing expulsion from this ancient arena of awareness and immediately regretted the desire to control ... and he was gone, back into the constricting capsule that clumsily plodded a sorry earth. The more he fought his expulsion the more tightly he was tied to the plodding body. As he struggled to remain, that endless expanse of peace was lost to his grasp and the dream of fear, loss and control was reborn.
The grasping fearful mind knows only one direction to go and it took him there - back to the pain and frustration it so feverishly fought against. He knew this. Despite his gentle, knowing strength whispering to him to let go, to let be, the screeching maw of his terror-stained dread yanked him into its ghastly, cobwebbed cavern of restriction and avarice.
He had trapped himself back into this parlous state and, despite his strong and silent knowing, the weak and flailing whimper was what he fell into step with ... and that step was a body he fell back into; a body of physical pain with mental guilts and fears.
Miserably, he knew he must open his eyes and feel the loving judgement of those around him. There must, he knew, be physical pain, many questions to be answered and many answers to be questioned. On a one-way trip to the demon of judgement, he knew he must accept his fate and, as best he could, slog through the swamp of desire, plans and affairs of the world of tangible and corruptible form.
He opened his eyes a little, anticipating a strong and stinging light to be adjusted to. It was a bright light, yes, but nowhere as bright as the light in the dream he'd just emerged from. He shut his eyes again, hoping he'd find himself back in that deep and silent light. It was not to be. Noises started up as if his opening lids had flicked a switch on a sound machine. He was trapped in this clumsy body and he knew he must return, for now, to the dream of pain and separation.
As he woke into a denseness, he felt himself a stranger, as did King Harun-al Rashid in The Thousand and One Nights who, as the sun went down, left his palace in beggars clothes in order to mix with the poorer people and hear what they said about him. He really didn't belong. He knew that. He'd always known that and yet, here he was in this strange and straining land again, a stranger in beggars clothes with the burden of guilt, yet again.
With a grim smile he sneaked his eyes open a little and saw a movement and smelled a whiff of familiarity - a fragrance of her, restored to memory.
"Are you awake, Arthur?" asked Joan quietly. Her concern pained him for he knew (or felt) he now had to deal with her pain as well as his. He sighed inwardly and smiled.
"Yes, yes, I'm here, love," said Arthur, trying to lift his arm to pat her hand and finding it trapped in the bed clothes on which she sat.
"Oh Arthur, I'm sorry, I was sitting on your arm!" said Joan jumping up.
He eased his arm out, with her help, and took her hand to reassure, while a jangling pain stabbed him in the head and several other unidentified places. He grimaced and gripped her more tightly than he'd meant to.
"Oh dear, did I hurt you, Arthur?" asked Joan, apparently blaming herself for everything.
"No, no dear, just my head a little ... aah, wobbly," said Arthur, wondering why his head and some of his body on one side felt either sore or oddly out of sorts. As that question arose, he wondered why he was in a strange bed ... a single bed with starched sheets and the smell of antiseptic all around. His hand went to his head and it felt like a bandage there. "Did I hurt myself somehow?" he asked tentatively.
"You don't remember?" asked Joan, looking surprised. "You remembered this morning."
"Morning," said Arthur, savouring the thought of time, something he'd been out of for eternity. "So what day is it now?"
"It's Wednesday ... aah, four in the afternoon," said Joan. "You've been unconscious since Tuesday, except for when you woke before, for a short while."
Joan's voice mingled with the fog of his mind, flowing over him, gentle as the morning mist. Then came another, deeper sound, sneaking through the folds of his opening awareness. He recognised the sound from somewhere.
"Are you alright, Dad?" asked the voice, tremulous and unsure, as if asking a question it dare not but must know the answer to.
Mmm, how am I? thought Arthur. How do I answer that that? Do I say I am disappointed and sad to be back? Do I tel
l of the pain in my head and tingling left side? Do I speak of the fragments of peace and ecstasy from the other world that cling to me determinedly? How do I explain that it's both good and bad to be back? What will they understand of an experience my words cannot describe? If he tried to explain they'd think him deranged for how can anyone wish to be dead and wish to return to ... ah, whatever it was? Only insane people, judged by this sleeping world, wish to return to the arms of God. A large part of him wanted them to know of the abiding joy and peace that was possible; not in this world, ever, but in another world. Oh dear, perhaps another time, he thought sadly. So he looked around in his mind for words they might want to hear and couldn't find many at all. Then the voice's name recalled itself to him.
"I'm fine, Martin, I'm fine," said Arthur, trying out a smile while fearing it looked like a grimace. "My head's a bit sore and my left side feels like pins and needles. But it's good to hear your voice." And it was good to hear his son's voice. Arthur sensed - rather than saw - Martin moving closer to the bed; gingerly as if walking through a minefield.
"It's okay Martin. I won't break!" said Arthur as unaccustomed humour came to him. "Yes, you can take my left hand. A bit tingly but it's still the same old hand of your same old father."
"How did you know?" asked Martin as he stepped forward to hold Arthur's hand.
"Know what?" asked Arthur.
"Well, that I wanted to hold your hand," said Martin tentatively. "You seem to know my thoughts."
"Well son, maybe your mother is right about that miracle course of hers," said Arthur. "Maybe there is only one mind after all." His vision had cleared some and he could see Joan, sitting on his bed on his right side, one hand on his and the other dabbing at tears she couldn't hold back.
"Well, would ya look at dat!" said Arthur, feigning an Irish accent. "I return from the dead and your mother holds a wake!"
"Oh Arthur, I'm just relieved you're back," said Joan. "It must have been terrible for you."
"Actually, my love, it was the most peaceful I have ever been," said Arthur, now returning the tender hold she had on his hand. "I can't really explain it but there really is nothing to fear. Nothing at all."
"The only thing we fear is the greatness we are destined to be," said Joan.
"Yeah, and my silly father returning with an Irish accent and a sense of humour," said Martin, smiling broadly. "I didn't know you had it in you, Dad!"
"Aye, dere's more where dat come from," said Arthur in his new Irish accent, an accent that came to him with surprising ease.
"You sound really funny, grandad," came a small voice from a small, brunette head beside Martin.
"Aha, Katie, so nice to see you again," said Arthur, his usual reserve falling away. "Would you like to hop up here and see the world from this royal bed?"
"But, but ..." said Martin.
"Oh yes!" said Katie, bouncing up and hugging him.
"Oh Katie, be careful of granddad's head," said Martin, looking worried.
"It's alright, Martin. Katie, just don't touch where the bandage lump is here," said Martin, turning his head to show her. "And where's that rascal brother of yours?"
"Uh, I'm here," said Timothy from over by the window.
"He's scared of you," explained Katie. "Like you could be really sick or something."
"I'm not scared," said Timothy defiantly. "I'm just looking out the window."
"Well, my brave man, your granddad would like a hug, please," said Arthur, realising his usual fear of asking, of rejection, had evaporated a little.
"Me? Now?" asked Timothy, a sneaky smile creeping onto his face as he turned towards Arthur slowly.
"Aye, yes you, yes now, you little mite!" said Arthur in Irish again. "Git yerself over here and give me one of those famous Timothy hugs."
Timothy wiped his eyes with his sleeve and sauntered over. Martin hefted him up and he clung to Arthur like a limpet, crying freely.
"Did you miss me, you little warrior?" asked Arthur into Timothy's hair.
"Mmm," said Timothy, trying to control his sobs. "I thought you were gone."
"Well, yes, I was gone and now I'm back," said Arthur. "It's nice to know I've been missed." Timothy released his hold a little and looked into Arthur's eyes for a long moment. No one spoke.
"You're different aren't you, granddad?" said Timothy, a statement and a question together.
"Yes, Timothy, I'm probably a trifle different," said Arthur, not wanting to belittle the gravity of Timothy's question/statement. "I don't suppose anyone can have such a shocking experience and not be different."
"But granddad, you ... you died," said Timothy, obviously grasping for words to describe something he couldn't quite comprehend. "You died and came back. That made you different."
"Holy pyjamas, this young man speaks like Solomon!" said Arthur with the relief of knowing someone vaguely understood. With Timothy, he knew, he would not have to explain things. Or, at least, he could easily explain and Timothy would know. The older man and the younger boy looked at each other with an ageless knowing and smiled.
"Ooh, boys are weird!" said Katie sitting back a little, uncertainly.
"We're all a bit weird, Katie darling," said Joan, smiling as she patted Katie's hand.
"Did you know they want to get you, Granddad?" asked Timothy quietly, evenly.
"Timothy! There's no need to be talking about that now ..." said Martin, his face flushing red.
"Martin, Martin, my son, the beast will be unearthed," said Arthur, trying to take his left hand out from under Martin's, to pat Martin on the arm. He remembered, a little sadly, that that arm wouldn't move.
"But Dad, you're still recovering ..." said Martin, pleading.
"And we'll all be better if we know and face the truth," said Arthur, smiling. "The truth in the dark is always worse than the truth in the light."
"Hello Mister!" said a new voice as a blonde head appeared next to Martin, who embraced (or held back?) the excited girl.
"Oh Chloe, careful," said her mother from behind Martin. "Mr Bayly's been very sick."
"I understand your concern, Emily, but the joy of youth is a great antidote to a broken head. Help her up here, Martin. Let's have a bed party!" said Arthur, wondering why his usual reserve and reticence seemed to be slipping away. Martin lifted Chloe onto the bed, next to Katie, who looked a little more comfortable now.
"So, my wise young man," said Arthur looking back to Timothy, "what was it you wanted to say?"
"Well, Granddad ... aah," said Timothy, looking uncertainly at his father.
"Go on Timothy, tell us what no one else wants to say, my brave man," said Arthur.
"They want to get you. They're after you, Granddad," said Timothy, seriously, looking directly into Arthur's eyes." They won't give up till they've got you ... that's it, really."
"Oh Timothy, that's an awful thing to say," said Martin. "We don't really know that ..."
"Yes we do Dad," said Timothy, not taking his eyes from Arthur's. "That's what they said."
"And you're right, young man. They want to get someone, anyone, to cover for their misdeeds and they've chosen me as a target as good as any other," said Arthur as someone else formed words in his mouth. "And, choosing to live their lives in fear, they feel lost. There is no respite in such fevered, grasping minds and taking hostages saves them from their own insanity. Or so they think."
"What the heck does that mean?" asked Martin, smiling at his father and then at Emily, shaking his head.
"What it means, Martin," said Joan, "is that when we choose fear as a way to live, the only way for our twisted minds to stop the world seeming to be unsafe is to make it unsafe for others,".
"But it IS unsafe, Mum, Dad!" exclaimed Martin. "I'm not sure why I need to spell it out but, as Timothy said, they're out to get you. Whether they should or not, well, who cares! They're just out to get you, Dad! That's bl ... ah, very unsafe, don't you think?"
"Yes Martin, it might seem very unsafe but,
as your mother is fond of saying, from her Miracle book, we can never be upset at a fact," said Arthur, wondering where the conversation-maker in his head was leading with this.
"Oh, right, so we should just be happy they're out to get you!" said Martin. "Whoever they are and exactly what 'get you' means to them."
"Martin, Martin, my son, there is nothing to fear. There really is nothing to fear ... but fear itself, as someone said," said Arthur.
"Yeah, nice words but the reality ..." said Martin, squeezing his father's hand tighter with each word.
"The reality, Martin, is that these men - I presume they're all men - are all frightened for some reason," said Arthur as a deep peace flooded through him and, for all he knew, out into the room. "In their fear, their self-created fear, they imagine they're jumping to the strings of a mad puppeteer. That's their world, their thoughts, their insane minds. We don't have to join them, Martin."
"Yeah, whatever Dad," said Martin, running his manicured fingers through his hair. "They're still out to get you and you could be in danger and so could we all - children, adults, the lot."
"We could be in danger, Martin, you're right. You're so right," said Arthur, seeing a frenetic fear writing its script across Martin's face. How, he wondered, can he help rewrite that script in a more peaceful and accepting way?
"We're not in danger now are we?" asked Timothy steadily.
"No we're not, Timothy," said Joan. "We're in a warm hospital with family and friends and no one's hurting anyone of us at this moment. No one except our own thoughts."
"So if we think nice thoughts, we'll be safer?" asked Katie, the startled look in her eyes from a few moments ago disappearing.
"Absolutely, love," said Joan, stroking Katie's hair. "Absolutely."
"But the danger's still out there, waiting!" said Martin, unmollified.
"Martin, you've been through divorce and survived," said Emily, touching his shoulder. "Now, a few years ago you might have considered it and been aghast at the thought of the havoc it would wreck in your life. Back then, it probably seemed terrible, ghastly. But now you've done it ... doing it and it's not perfect but nowhere as bad as you previously imagined it would be. Right?"
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