Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  He kicked over the last of the rubble and walked out to the shining edges of the cliffs where he had originally chosen to build, adoring the fresh sharp bite of the solitude and the astonishing beauty of vision stretching above to the mountains and their blinding white tips, with the green spreading of endless blues, greens and yellows below. The birds liked it here too, though a little vertiginous for the sparrows, grebes and meadow larks. He would build again. Inevitably and repetitiously, he would regain the semblance of home.

  Long solitude had explained many things to him. He knew that his home here would always reflect himself and his state of grace, or gracelessness. If his inner self foundered, so must his walls, for they were the natural mirror of his growth. A spirit in a spirit-land, whatever costume he chooses to wear, will always be naked. The truth of his being was displayed for all to see, for his home was himself; his surroundings were his progress thus far along the way.

  He turned and laughed, tossing the long hair back from the remaining holes in his face. Well, that very nakedness told an ugly story for any desiring to read it, for his house, never more than a sheltering hut, lay in ruins. Its place was high, but only just beyond the fogbanks that divided the third plane from the fourth. There were ten planes, some said, before you reached your potential, or even knew what it was. That was a long way to climb. Not rock climbing, but survival climbing. The struggle of a soul towards its zenith.

  He had given himself the name Primo, though sometimes he forgot it, since there was no one to call him by it. It was a name he’d taken when arriving on the third plane. Most there invented new titles. New identities. Some feared recognition from everything they’d done in life. Plenty were notorious and carried a reputation. Primo wasn’t sure he’d ever been notorious. Fame seemed an absurd thing to contemplate now, but perhaps it had constituted the original meaning of his name. Now he disliked remembering and closed off the past when he could. But long sleeps, the sleeps that crept upon him when he was sick, or lonely, or adrift, would bring back the spite of distant and deep hidden thoughts.

  There had been whisperings during this last sleep, insidious memories, thin fingers probing, squeezing, exploring and discovering. Pushing into places he wanted to lock, but could no longer fight to protect. Like the holes in his face, the sleep had poked into wounds and knocked at doors. The doors had opened. So he woke a little healed, energetic and refreshed as waking here always ensured, ready to rebuild and face again a reformed future.

  Primo thanked the harpy. She did not respond, having no understanding of gratitude. He stood beside her in the energising, curative sunshine and felt his face, smoothing along the familiar lines. His nose had grown back, perhaps a little sharper. The hanging skin was pressed again into place and the last holes would mend soon enough. He breathed in the residual pain, bent, and immediately started building. Half with hands, half with mind, he shored up the walls. The window was larger this time, encompassing the huge sweep of scenery beyond and below. He believed it a good sign. Windows were, of course, entrances to the soul. His was, therefore, more open to investigation, and lighter. Less shame. He smiled, and piled on the roof. The roof was semi-thatched, an important barrier. Let in the light but keep out intrusion. Inside felt cosy. His box bed was wider and plump, stuffed with feather and down, a bird’s snuggled nest. He curtained it in green swathed damask which whispered; shadows rustling from their branch. His mind focused and held everything firm until solid, then adding texture and pattern.

  The hornbill, finding herself unexpectedly indoors, opened an eye and adjusted her perch. Primo carried her back outside where she stretched her wings, toppled slightly, caught her balance, and went back to sleep. The macaw also continued his bird dreams, head beneath a scarlet wing.

  “You’ve not visited the boy since he slept again?”

  “He’s not ready. But I watch him,” Wilmot said. “Part of me remains always aware of him, although not to his knowledge.”

  The other sighed. “So hard, to keep a distance, when we want so much to help and comfort.”

  Wilmot smiled. “I follow the harpy sometimes, when she hunts. A most glorious bird, and I copy her flight. Such a joyous speed. She knows me, although as yet he does not.”

  “And does he know anything yet? I mean,” smiled the man, speaking half in words and half in the mind, “has he yet remembered the tragedy of his passing – the secrets – the mystery? Have you sent the boy the sleep of remembrance?”

  “No.” Wilmot no longer smiled, although his eyes remained very bright. “My boy has forgotten so deeply, and has so resisted any passing memory so vehemently, and even though he has called himself Primo, he no longer remembers why. So I will not force what he has chosen to forget.”

  “But he should face it. One day –”

  “One day, yes. Although how long is a day in paradise? And I am sublimely patient.”

  “You know best, where your own charge is concerned.” The pale warmth, where they sat on nothing in particular, had grown starlit, although there was neither night nor dark. “Look below. Is that another of your friends?”

  “Oh, Norwen.” Wilmot chuckled. “Still so proper. But his charge has recently arrived, so soon he’ll be busy. I’ll send him a sign.”

  Veering from serenity to lurid, the sky exploded. White brilliance was infused with perfume. A deliciousness of nostalgia invaded each of the heightened senses and a strange but unethereal beauty sped into firework spangles.

  The aromatic melody swirled into a stark and stunning silence.

  Standing firm on the rolling grassy pastures, Norwen looked up and raised one invisible eyebrow. “Don’t tell me,” he said faintly. “Wilmot again.”

  “Unnerving,” agreed the other spirit. “Though nerves are hardly an issue anymore.”

  “They are with Wilmot around,” said Norwen.

  “It makes one wonder,” said his companion with a telepathic smile, “whether Wilmot was smuggled onto the ninth plane, presumably by some practical joker. Or is he a cosmic punishment for us all to overcome before proving ourselves fit for the tenth?”

  Norwen laughed, no longer telepathically. He allowed the laughter to emerge into the exploding sky, unbalancing the silence. “Indeed, I have an uncomfortable idea that Wilmot may pass up onto the tenth before any of us. The perfumes are, you must agree, quite gorgeous.”

  “My dear man,” said the other spirit, “everything here is gorgeous. Except perhaps Wilmot.”

  “Bizarre. Eccentric. Insane. And the most gorgeous of us all,” murmured Norwen.

  “I hear he’s started work. That may give us some peace.”

  “Oh he started work long ago,” Norwen said. “His apprentice arrived on the third. Moving the young man up has been arduous. Wilmot takes endless care, and loves him dearly.” Norwen began to float upwards into the current of perfume, grasping each individual scent with pleasure. “My own special apprentice has just arrived you know, so I shall be busy. But she arrived already on the seventh. An easier proposition, and filled with delight. I’ve been waiting for her.”

  The other man nodded, floating up beside his friend. “Wilmot would doubtless choose the more challenging apprentice.”

  “Of course. He’s so challenging himself. He still generates desire and excitement.”

  “Would you call it that? How interesting.”

  “Certainly interesting,” said Norwen. “He remains unpredictable, but I think he would probably agree with me.”

  “If it is meant as a compliment,” smiled the other man, “then Wilmot would certainly agree with you.”

  Methodical, Sophie piled the clothes, laying the prettier things across the bed, heaping the throw-aways under the window. First woollies, lots of woollies, a mother’s practical barriers to winter. Mostly moth eaten. Mostly for the charity shop or the bin.

  But Sophie wanted to keep some of her mother’s clothes, those that were smart, and familiar, and held memories. And as she sorted she realised, sur
prisingly, it was easy enough finding plenty she wanted to keep. She’d want to wear them too. So much, so elegant, so expensive. Unexpected Italian labels, beautiful materials.

  Less sensible were the sarongs and the swimming costumes. Bikinis. Perhaps her mother had enjoyed those Italian holidays more than she’d let on at the time. Not such a prim culture seeker after all. No one wore a sarong on a museum trek.

  And then, most absurd of all, the underwear. Gossamer lace and designer labels. God, these things were expensive. The keep-and-treasure piles grew quicker than the chuck-out-and-forget. Sophie didn’t believe her mother could have afforded this sort of thing. Nor needed it. It wasn’t making sense.

  Her father was out, at the pub probably, making sure Sophie couldn’t call on him for assistance or decisions. She’d preferred it that way at first but being alone in the house with such a barrage of memories combined with this sudden swoop of the unexpected was becoming uncomfortable and she wanted someone’s opinion as reassurance. The plastic bin bags lay empty like squashed black balloons across the floor, puffing their little shuddered sighs as her movements rustled their inertia. Her mind felt like that too. She wasn’t understanding something.

  There was lingerie like transparent jewels, satin nightdresses so fine they could be pulled through a wedding ring. Suspenders and black silk stockings, camisoles in embroidered taffeta, knickers like ribbons of coloured daisies. Beauty worn but not outworn, washed, folded, valued. Valuable. Sophie felt as she had when she was four years old and had walked in on her parents making love. She hadn’t known at the time what they were doing but it had been strangely unpleasant and her father had been angry and her mother embarrassed. This felt like the same thing again except she was all alone and feeling angry and embarrassed in solitude. She’d thought her parents had been barely affectionate for years, yet here was the proof of their lust. Which was unfair for with anything this gorgeous, the right word had to be romance.

  Escaping the underwear, Sophie unlocked the little desk in the corner. This was only her mother’s, since her father used the big pine thing downstairs with the obsolete computer, so the bureau wasn’t full of unpaid bills, though some personal receipts had their own little drawer. But there were letters and photos and memorabilia, Sophie’s old school reports for goodness’ sake, the wizened petals of jasmine and an ancient Valentine rose, a screw of lace around a nutmeg, the broken shards of old china and the leaves of scented notelets. Sophie knew where the secret compartment was, because her mother had giggled and showed it to her many, many years ago. It had been empty then. Sophie opened it now and found it wasn’t empty anymore.

  There were a lot more letters, a hundred of them, some in a language Sophie couldn’t even understand. There were photos. She saw herself, baby cuddles, a few photos she’d forgotten ever having seen. But more importantly, there were some she knew quite well she’d never seen for there was a tall dark man against a scenery of cypresses, and others with her mother and the man together.

  Sophie finished the dregs of her father’s bottle of whisky, bundled up clothes, photos, letters and confusion into the same bag and left the house. She hurried herself back to her apartment where she quickly finished her own bottle of vodka. Then she went downstairs to find Julian.

  Georgia woke to the gentle sunshine, sat up and stretched. Opposite her cocoon the long wall of windows had transformed, reflecting light in rainbows. She did not remember such brilliance before she slept. Everything had changed.

  She had changed herself, slept away the dark storms of her life, their intensity now shrivelled to small silver trickles. She felt almost empty, like a hollow jug, eager to fill again with the bubbles of possibility lying beyond those windows.

  To either side the rows of sleepers remained. Some were almost invisible beneath their wrappings, covered by a gentle, lapping haze. Others lay beneath singing colours, great arches of light whirling in dancing tides. Dream spectrum. Her own covering had dissolved and she was free to rise.

  She walked to the windows, looking first down to her toes as she moved. She was pleased to find them recognisable, the feet she knew as her own, but polished and soft and young. No broken nails, no calluses or old bruised skin. She wore a long tunic of indeterminate colour without weight. But then, her body was also weightless. She floated. She was younger than young.

  The windows formed a visible barrier but there was no glass. She stretched a finger to find the wall but none was there. One thing ended and another began, but there was no finite point designated to such certainties. Georgia gazed through the frame onto the spread of world beyond and found that she was immediately part of the scene itself.

  The grass was more than grass and its shade was more than green. There were trees, hills and meadows becalmed beneath a sky, but each was more than such a thing had ever seemed to her before, and nothing was bound by horizon. There was no limit to her sight except her own timidity, for had she felt the desire of it, she could have seen on and on forever.

  Then she became aware that the doctor stood beside her at the window. “I love this moment,” he said, “someone’s first sight of the Summerlands. And now you see what I see. Before you slept you weren’t quite on the same wavelength. Your vibration was slower, still almost attached to the physical, and you carried its limitations. Now the healing sleep has brought you the full comprehension we each share here. Now you’re part of it, as we all are.”

  “Heaven,” murmured Georgia. “Paradise. I like the name you give it; the Summerlands.”

  “There are a thousand names,” said the doctor. “The most accurate perhaps, is the seventh plane, or the Plane of Welcome. This is where most of us arrive at first, immediately after death. It is the level of greatest familiarity. But there are others. You needn’t bother about them yet.”

  “Can I come back to you for answers,” said Georgia, “after I’ve settled in? I’m sure to have a thousand questions.”

  “You can, but you won’t need to,” smiled the doctor. “Your guide will find you first.”

  Julian said, “Darling, you’ll never throw this stuff away?”

  “I might not,” said Sophie. “Not all of it anyway. But I can’t wear my own mother’s underwear, can I? That would be gross.”

  “I’ll bet your own is a lot more shameful,” said Julian. “Those hideous rags you spinsters wear, bras with the wires poking out and saggy elastic like bacon rind after it’s been chewed and spat out.”

  “You’ve been looking,” grinned Sophie.

  “I’m serious,” Julian smacked her fingers. “Wear this heavenly stuff, stupid girl. Delight in it. Be gorgeous for once. So – your mother had an affair. Be proud of her.”

  “Well, in a sort of a way, I am,” mumbled Sophie. “But then again, I suppose I’m not. This had to be a bit more than just an affair, didn’t it? Is that good, or bad?”

  Julian played with the ribbons and the folded papers tumbling loose. “A wildly romantic orgy, my dear, and a healthy release I’m sure, for any suburban housewife. This one obviously lasted for years.”

  Sophie nodded. “So - better than being promiscuous. Which is probably what my father was. Is.” She reached over and lifted a larger photograph. “He looks nice, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t be absurd, child. Latin lovers always look nice,” said Julian. “I wonder if the dear boy knows his beloved has joined the heavenly hosts.”

  “I can’t worry about that,” said Sophie. “He shouldn’t have been screwing a married woman.” She was filling the rubbish bags now. Pills, some herbal alternatives Georgia had been trying at the end. Then the make-up with scrubby little worn out brushes and scraped out colours.

  “Don’t chuck that, it’s still got some left,” said Julian.

  “I’m not going to. It’s expensive perfume. Funny, I never knew my mother to wear perfume,” said Sophie.

  “Sounds like you never knew your mother at all,” said Julian.

  Chapter Four


  Georgia found her home waiting for her. “I wasn’t sure we’d even have houses here,” she said. “Or if we did, how we’d get them. I mean, I’m not that silly. I know there can’t be bank loans or estate agents.”

  “It seems,” said her father, “that on this plane anyway, home happens as a matter of right. It waits for us, just as the natural place around it does. The house begins to take shape when someone approaches death. Because I knew you were coming, I was brought here and saw it, and made a few additions, preparations, gifts in a way. Things I thought you’d like. But I didn’t build it and of course I didn’t buy it. In a way, you built it, before you got here. It’s a natural reflection of your own personality, of your own state of being. If you change, grow or expand, so will your house. If you crumble, so will it. But of course, you won’t. No one does here.”

  Georgia hovered outside, gazing at the long low timbers, the little snuggled gables and the many windows. “I understand that,” she said. “Home is a fundamental part of how we feel about ourselves, isn’t it. It’s not a building at heart. It’s a state of mind.”

  “Which is what happens here, of course. Your state of mind turns into something that seems solid.”

  Glowingly and flattered, “But this is lovely. Am I really so nice inside? And it’s so real – so – earthy.”

  “This is the plane of familiarity,” said her grandmother, taking her hand. “Until we move on up, we stay very protected here without the sudden shock of coming from the physical into the spiritual. Things look very like we’re used to, the way they were when we were alive, but without the old difficulties. Life’s challenges are ironed out, because none of this is really physical at all.”