“Interesting.” Wilmot chuckled, moving swiftly through the fogbanks into the greater openness, creating his own bow-wave of colour intensity.
Norwen followed. “Perhaps you realise,” he said, “or perhaps you don’t. But you seem to be frightening the sixth planers.”
Wilmot looked down through the clear air. Norwen, though flying close, remained invisible. Wilmot, who had chosen to materialize as a winged rainbow, was vibrantly visible. Crowds had gathered below, looking up, open mouthed and excited. Wilmot shook his head and his luminous colours fluttered like flags. “I enjoy actual travel. Thought transposition still seems a little – staid. I am clearly – sadly – still far from realising my full spiritual potential.”
Norwen laughed. Coming from emptiness, it sounded suspiciously like a snigger. “Retrogression even? Should you be snatched back to the lower planes permanently, I promise to visit.”
“Perhaps rabid idiocy is my ultimate potential,” wondered Wilmot. “But of course, I should not confuse the natives. Perhaps – another guise I think.”
The swirling dragon of rainbows condensed quickly and, without pause, Wilmot reappeared considerably altered and somewhat smug. The crowd below had doubled. The interest was increasing.
Norwen blinked, several times. “If,” said Norwen severely, “you are going to remain looking like that, I’m leaving.”
The small plump cherub grinned, but clutched his harp with determination and flew on. The streamed arch of colours had turned to neat little flapping wings of creamy swans down. He kicked his chubby calves and flexed his little bare toes. The toe nails were polished to a candy pink, which reflected the passing clouds. The breeze caught the cherub’s short blonde curls, ruffled the golden strings of his harp with a faint twang of the Barcarolle, and flicked at the hem of his bright white toga. “I was ordered not to scare the villagers,” Wilmot said, blowing out his angelic cheeks. “This manifestation at least, should make them feel far more secure. Half of them have been expecting angels to appear ever since they died. Waiting, in fact, for the reassurance of a traditional heaven. Shall I sing? Is my halo clean? Should I wave?”
“You’re incorrigible,” said Norwen faintly.
“Thank you,” said the cherub. The harp, entirely of its own accord, began to play Amazing Grace.
“The conversation I had in mind,” Norwen persisted, “was more to do with the delights of once again having an apprentice. She is – deliciously entertaining. How can you resist spending time with your own charge?”
“Resisting temptation,” frowned the cherub, “is surely what we have been learning, my friend. You, a spirit of the ninth plane, and yet you cannot resist temptation?”
“Sometimes,” said his invisible companion, “I wonder why I bother talking to you at all. You know perfectly well what I mean, and if I really couldn’t resist temptation, then I would turn myself into a dragon and swallow you up.”
The cherub strummed and the harp changed its tune to La Traviata. Wilmot said suddenly, “I do feel genuine temptation at times, since my poor Primo needs so much. But he’s not ready.”
“Not ready to face the past? But what about the future?”
The harp fell silent. “Oh, he grows,” Wilmot said. “I help from a distance. But it is the great agony of his past which blocks his future. So I am being – unnaturally – careful.”
“No, I don’t own anything as mundane as an atlas,” said Julian. “And you’re interrupting something I consider far more important.”
“I thought you wanted this trip,” said Sophie, abashed. “Even more than me. Strictly speaking, it was your idea.”
“Dear infant,” said Julian through the wasp hum of the sewing machine, “what I am doing is important precisely for that reason. These are commissions for the new Hippodrome extravaganza. Until they’re finished, I can’t leave the room, let alone the country. I am a professional you know.”
“Yes, I know. Unlike me.”
“You are not even an amateur,” Julian’s attention was back on the cerise satin. “You are without status. I suspect you are a nothing more than a lost soul, bubbling with wasted potential. But potential for what? Indeed, no one knows. Be off with you now, and pack your squalid little bags. I’ve no time to spare.”
“Pack my bags for what?” demanded Sophie, halfway through the door.
“For Italy, child,” murmured Julian, straightening a seam. “Did I not tell you?”
“Yes, but,” hovered Sophie, “you’re getting rid of me. Telling me you’re too busy.”
“Did I not mention I’ve already booked the flights?” Julian suppressed the smile, head bent over the material. “Perhaps I failed to tell you. Yes indeed, next Monday, in just four days' time. When I finish this dress, I shall make myself swimming trunks from the remaining scraps. I just hope it’s going to be wildly hot.”
“Every where’s hotter than England,” grinned Sophie with a little hop. “And with you in teeny cerise satin knickers, it’ll be a heat wave.”
“Swimming shorts, infant,” corrected Julian. “I don’t wear knickers.”
“I thought you probably didn’t,” smiled Sophie.
They arrived at Pisa airport during the swelter of an afternoon storm. Thunder echoed over the roof tops like the anger of a Renaissance deity, tipping its relentless steel torrents across the hilly landscapes and into the valleys. It was in the lower curve of one small green valley that the cottage nestled.
Romano lay across the bed, sleepless. His siesta, sluiced by storm and memory, had brought neither dream nor rest. During the long warm nights he slept very little anyway, so absurd to insist on pointless repetition during the day. At least at night he could walk in the moonlight, listen to the small hooting of the owls and the little scuttling’s of vole and weasel like whispers in rhythm with the beating of his heart. Certainly the nights, intensified by the beauty of shadow and the lack of human distraction, wove their own nightmares. But now the days had crept into the echo of those lonely disillusions and after a lifetime without such indulgences, even self-pity. He missed, quite desperately, the laughing. His own sense of humour had always been the candle of his life and Georgia’s defenceless giggles had made him proud of his power to amuse her.
It had never been his own death he’d feared, but hers.
Now the smell of wet earth and the thrum of the rain on the window were comforting. Spring’s laughter. He rolled naked from the bed, tossed on a careless dressing gown, and pattered into the kitchen. He made coffee. The smell of it combined with the smells of the rain and eager growth. The ancient stone walls of the cottage held in the damp for days after a storm, moss an insidiously waiting presence in the air, so Romano took his cup and went to the front door, pulling it open to the spangle of water drops and the warmth outside.
Two small and dishevelled people huddled by his garden gate. They were tugging at soggy suitcases and their hair streamed.
Romano smiled, absently closed the opening of his dressing gown, and waved one hand. The cottage was over a kilometre from the nearest vineyard and at least seven from the village, so no one used that road. Lost tourists were not common, but Tuscany had become sadly fashionable. “Posso offrire qualche assistenza?” At first he thought them two women.
“It’s him,” said one of them in dramatic undertones. “The Latin Lover.”
The other, taller one shivered noticeably. Her mascara was beginning to trickle down one cheek. “Quick. Let’s go and find a hotel.”
“And how the hell do we do that?” demanded the smaller one. “We’ve let the taxi go and now we’re miles from anywhere.”
A flicker of understanding hit Romano square in the solar plexus. He wrapped the dressing gown somewhat tighter and knotted the cord. He developed a smile.
His taller visitor exhaled audibly, walked up the garden path and stretched a small hand from a sodden cuff. “How do you do,” she said gruffly. “I’m terribly sorry but we didn’t expect anyone to be her
e. Are you Romano DelMare? I’m Sophie. I’m Georgia’s daughter.”
Romano nodded and shook the little wet fingers offered to him. “This is certainly a surprise,” he said. “You’d better come in. You are of course welcome. But I think, before further discussion, I will go and dress.”
They followed his retreat into the narrow hallway, lugging in their cases behind them and shaking off accumulated droplets, like puppies, onto the worn terracotta tiles. The bags sagged into wet heaps and Sophie and Julian slung their dripping jackets on top. Puddles collected in the hollows of the deep red floor. Romano reappeared quickly, still barefoot, now buttoning his untucked shirt. He had no idea what he was going to do with them. He said, “I’ve just made coffee.”
They shook their little wet curls. “We don’t want to be a nuisance,” said Sophie. “If we could just wait out the storm? Then if you could order us a taxi, we’ll go and find a hotel.”
Romano ushered them into the wide kitchen where the low cooking range was still warm from heating the coffee pot. “You had better dry off before we consider anything else,” he said. “But in any case, I’ve no objection to becoming acquainted with Georgia’s daughter at long last. We spoke of it many times, you know, the advisability, or otherwise, of my meeting you. It was always easier, I’m afraid, not to risk your disapproval. Now perhaps we should get to know each other after all. You will have questions, I imagine.”
Sophie paused, breathed in the warming perfumes and hung her head a little. “Well, some,” she said. “It was such a surprise, discovering the letters and photos and everything. Now it really is awfully nice to meet you.”
“Hypocrite,” muttered Julian from the corner.
“This,” blushed Sophie, “is my friend Julian. I didn’t want to come alone. I mean, I didn’t expect anyone to be here, let alone you. That is, some letters had a London address so I thought you lived there. When I found the deeds to this house in my mother’s name, I just assumed it would be sitting empty. Are there any hotels in the village?”
“There are half a dozen empty bedrooms here,” said Romano at once. “You will stay, of course. Besides, there are no hotels nearby. This house stands on my own lands, and tourists have no reason to come to the area.”
“I see,” Sophie tried not to stare around with too much curiosity. “Is that how my mother met you? I mean, if your land is all around?”
“No,” Romano sat at the long wooden table, and poured more coffee. “We met, many years before, in Firenze. This is an old cottage, long deserted, on my family’s estate. I restored it for Georgia as a gift. It gave us a place for holidays, and a little romantic privacy you see.”
Sophie was still blushing. “Of course. Yes. I mean, so no museum treks with her friend Katie after all.”
Romano smiled. “No. A necessary subterfuge. I’m sorry.”
Julian was pacing the floor, peering from windows, gazing at the antique range and the trestle benches, the beamed ceiling and hanging utensils. “So it’s your house? Not left to Sophie in her mother’s will?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Romano. “Although I gave it to Georgia, she returned it to me some months ago, the last time we were here together, though the papers were not entirely finalised. She already knew, you see, that she had very little time left.”
“Of course. So we shouldn’t be here.” Sophie took the coffee she was offered. “But it was such a shock, you see, knowing nothing about you all this time, and then suddenly finding out. Mum kept loads of your letters and I found them when I was clearing things out for my father.”
“I hope,” smiled Romano, “that Georgia did not keep all my letters. Perhaps only the ones in Italian?”
Sophie giggled. The laugh reminded Romano, very strongly, of what he had been trying to remember. “I’m afraid not,” said Sophie.
“Well, in that case,” smiled Romano. “Since no doubt you now know a great deal about me, it seems time we became friends. I’ll show you upstairs to your rooms.”
“So romantic,” breathed Julian. “And tragic.” Sophie glared at him. Julian pursed his lips and shook his head. “Hardly a vulgar word, darling, nor blasphemous,” he glared back. “Romance and tragedy are always combined, especially in Italy. The very substance of opera.”
“But not something I’ve any intention of discussing at the moment,” said Romano firmly. “If you wish to unpack – and change perhaps? Then, if you like, I’ll drive you both into the village for supplies. An aperitif before dinner I think, and then back here. I will cook you a good meal and if it stops raining, we’ll eat al fresco under the old olive tree by the little vines. You are not too tired?”
“I’m going to love this place,” sighed Julian.
Chapter Six
Georgia sat on the sand and watched the sea. Obeying no tidal rhythm, the waves followed their own music, tremendous or playful, and many-coloured within the blue reflections of the endless sky. The sand was warm and dun gold as butter, not grainy but swelling smoothly soft.
She had slept there, not because it was night or because of tiredness, but because the water had lulled her into dreams. Then, when she had relinquished her concentration and closed her eyes, she continued to see the heaving majesty of the waves, the dance of spray and silvery lapse of foam across the sands beside her.
She had woken to the birds. Huge white wings caressed her, filling her vision and her ears. Wild, mournful calls, red beaked, feathers like whipped cream. Sea birds riding the tips of the waves, wheeling against the current, swinging high and returning low, they played with the water. Georgia sat up, hugged her knees, and watched. They were aware of her and included her presence in their game.
Beyond the immediacy of the coastal strip, the sea and sky merged into almost black and almost purple, violet, indigo and cobalt, white and green, silver to gold. No shade exact yet every colour pure. Spinning, salty, fresh, comprehending, this was no moon-led ocean but a chorus of spontaneity. Here the freedom of the seas was utterly true.
“It is,” said Georgia into her own head, “so very close to being a beach, with the familiarity of the ocean. Yet it’s also so totally, completely different.”
Norwen’s voice answered immediately into her thoughts. “Because here it can be itself, free of the restrictions of your own expectations.”
“You call this the plane of familiarity,” said Georgia. “Everything seems to be familiar at first. But it isn’t really. It is all just fantasy.”
“But which is the illusion?” said Norwen’s voice.
“Neither,” said Georgia. “Both.”
“A reality as real as any illusion,” said Norwen.
Georgia sighed. “You over-estimate me. I cannot possibly grasp these ambiguous meanings. Are you telling me that reality isn’t real? Or that illusion is reality?”
“That both are relative,” smiled the voice. “Here you will grow out of the necessity to relate to anything in terms of its tangibility. Truth is not always real, nor reality true. You will learn that there is no definition which remains unchanged, depending on your progress and your need. As you change yourself, so will your world, because it is simply the reflection of your attitude.”
“That’s hard to grasp,” said Georgia.
“But it always was this way,” said Norwen. “Your whole life was the reflection of your self and your growth. Yet because you lived within the illusion, you saw your world as physical fact, and therefore as the only reality. You thought the truth of the world around you, changed you. You believed you had to adapt to it. Whereas the opposite was nearer to actual truth – that in fact it was you who shaped your world, which had to adapt to your own expectations and your personal growth.”
Georgia nodded. “I never understood physics either. So this isn’t the sun. And this isn’t really the sea.”
“It is unnecessary to understand so vehemently,” said Norwen. “Such a determination towards definition, and the need to understand reality as opposed to spirit, wi
ll simply attach you to the old life.” The voice remained internal and telepathic, but instantly he stood beside her, his words echoing through his eyes. She was startled to see him so suddenly, and laughed. He asked, “Can you hear me better now that I am here and speak to you with a visible mouth?”
“You sound exactly the same.” She sat beside him on the sand, digging her toes into the warmth of it.
“Then which is illusion?”
“Those concepts are obsolete.” Georgia nodded. “And were always dubious.” A slick of foam had moved from the incoming waves, sliding across the back of her hand. Its transparency was delicate, but unlike the water she was used to, it retained its colour, momentarily staining her fingers. “And the water carries its own life. Of course, so do the birds. Do all the animals share the Summerlands?”
“They also have their own planes,” said Norwen. “Many creatures have grown to dislike or distrust humanity and wish to live apart. Others, by their natural character, prefer a separate existence in isolation or only amongst their own kind. We mean nothing to them and are therefore irrelevant. But there are those which delight in human companionship, either specific or general. Some simply find our existence around them preferable and familiar.”
“And even the ripples of seawater have their own consciousness. I love it that the birds accept me. It’s harder to understand that the water accepts me.”
“Then stop trying to understand,” smiled Norwen. “When you grow out of the need for familiarity to Earth-life, you’ll become part of the higher planes. Each is progressively less obviously physical, and more spiritual. If you could enter the ninth now, you’d find it surreal. You would be uncomfortably confused for there is less touch, less bodily appearance, and both sight and hearing are replaced by knowledge. But you are a long way from readiness yet. You cannot enter the higher planes until you’re ready for them.”
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