Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The young man stood, toppling on broken ankles that seemed, inexplicably, to support him. Francesco nodded, appreciating. “Heaven after all,” he said. “Mends bones quick as miracles. Nice to know,” and he kicked the terrorist’s feet from beneath him. One again the young man tumbled, groaning and crying.

  Gradually the others began to move away. The light was quickening. Francesco stood, peering over the crouching youth, until, losing interest, he also moved off. A sense of futility caught at him, slowing his arms as his legs grew heavy and still. He sighed. A sudden apathy slammed into him, winding him, catching him unawares. “Oh well,” he sighed, “I’m dead now anyway. I suppose nothing much else matters. Cinzia, where are you?”

  “Here, waiting,” said the woman.

  “Hurry,” called Father Spiro. “Time can be as unforgiving as hatred. You must not be left behind.”

  “I’m coming,” said Francesco. “Cinzia, take my arm. I’ll keep you safe.”

  And then, totally and completely against his will, the young bomber was lifted to his knees and began to crawl behind them. The light surrounded them all and created a pathway of glitter and warmth. The perfume of fresh running water followed, with all the melodies of a thousand streams and rivers and the great tidal rush of the oceans.

  Chapter Nine

  Getting drunk had never done this to him in the past but Dave felt slightly sick, so took longer than usual getting out of bed, even though wondering if it was even worth the effort did not actually make the bed any more comfortable. Sundays had little to offer at the best of times and this was the worst of times, but he’d have to cook something once his stomach stopped churning.

  Betsy had turned him down which was a humiliation and a surprise and added to the memories of last night which he’d sooner banish. Somehow it also added to the nausea. Betsy had always looked so damned available, short skirts and stretched halter tops. No silicone underneath and not much bra either. But evidently it wasn’t him she was after, after all.

  She had made every effort to thrust her breasts in his face ever since Georgia got ill, so he’d assumed it was a done deal. She’d come round to visit Georgia all the time, offering to cook and clean up, bringing flowers and cake and magazines. Then there had been a very hot afternoon when she’d sunbathed in her back garden wearing very little. Dave had seen better on Mallorcan beaches many times of course, but somehow semi-nudity in an English yard was less acceptable and therefore more alluring. She must have known he was glued to the window. Besides, she didn’t have a boyfriend at the moment and weren’t all unattached females dying for it? Unattached males certainly were. So he’d tried being both friendly and seductive and had made a fool of himself.

  In difficult moments other people lost themselves in their work or leaned on family solidarity, but Dave had chosen the option of drink. No one could make a satisfactorily abandoned career-dive into the civil service’s Central Ticket Office and the joys of ensuring that people paid their parking fines. It was just a nine to five and a rather feeble salary. As for family, his mother had died when he was thirty two and she’d only ever wanted him to come round and hang her pictures or unblock the sink anyway. He’d had no father, no brothers, and a sister lived in Australia which was good riddance. His only daughter was invariably rude when she bothered to visit at all, which was rare, and now she’d gone swanning off to Italy. What the hell was the big attraction of Italy to every female in his family anyway?

  Georgia had often accused him of being insensitive, which had rankled at the time, but he was certainly sensitive enough to realise his mates didn’t want him around now either. They were hardly proving to be the consolation he’d expected, becoming stupidly embarrassed and uncomfortable on sight. They didn’t know what to say to him, so they said nothing, which made it hard to have him around. He’d been widowed, for God’s sake, he wasn’t infectious. But because he felt so damned awkward, it was easier to keep out of the way, which meant drinking alone.

  Married men missed their freedom. Hence Mallorca, Benidorm and the Algarve, cheap booze and available flesh. Now the real thing, freedom legal and unencumbered, was proving unexpectedly miserable. So he’d moved back into the old bedroom, and sometimes Georgia seemed to be fleetingly there beside him, all cuddled up like long ago. Just before he drifted off to sleep vaguely pissed and moist eyed, in those grey foggy moments when reality was obscured and sadness crept in to fill up the corners, he felt Georgia’s arm come slipping around his waist, a gentle reassurance that the world was a safe place after all and that everything would somehow work out alright. And he’d blink, and sniff, and take one last look around, and there was always Georgia’s dressing gown watching him from its shadows on the bedroom door.

  The roadside hedgerows were thick with wild herbs and smelled rich with loam, and vines, and growth.

  “I am the younger son,” said Romano. “All these lands have been in my family for many generations, but it is my older brother who inherited and now manages the vineyards. I studied law instead. Useful, but dry. I had no passion for it so I sold the practise many years ago, to be free for travel and to live with Georgia when she could.”

  “That’s funny in a way,” said Sophie. “It means you’re unemployed like the rest of us.”

  “Speak for yourselves,” said Julian. He was watching the sunset through the cypresses. Like pointers to the swallow-swooped horizon, the trees were etched all across the Tuscan countryside, dark stripes against the daytime azure, framing the stars at night.

  “Self-employed is almost unemployed,” said Sophie. “The way you do it, it is anyway. But of course, we’re broke, which makes all the difference.”

  “I’m merely under-subsidised,” sniffed Julian. “You’re broke.”

  Romano smiled without apology. “And I have reclaimed my little house, denying your inheritance.”

  “Oh no.” It was almost true. “I honestly didn’t come just to find my property and see what it could be worth. I was curious to see what was here. Really, if I think about it properly, I came to discover my mother’s dream. I don’t actually have one myself.”

  “Everyone should have a dream,” said Romano.

  “Otherwise they can’t come true,” nodded Julian.

  “More than that,” said Romano. “Dreams open your heart to magic. To possibility and emotional mysticism. To live a purely practical life is to deny the essence of living.”

  “Can’t you have a practical dream?” said Sophie. “Like getting rich?”

  “That is not a dream,” smiled Romano. “That is a goal. Both may come true, but on the road a dream will bring great joy, whilst a goal brings frustrations and challenges to be overcome. Both have their value, but a dream is indispensable.”

  He had dreamed that afternoon. After a lazy lunch beneath the Rackham olive, siesta hour with the hum of the bees and the warmth of the sun creeping through the closed shutters, he had lain awake and smiling. The voices of his unexpected guests faded as they pattered to their rooms, muted exuberance. Romano liked the continuity. He liked to see the girl sit where once her mother had. No more empty, glaring places echoing only loneliness. The girl even looked a little like her mother. He liked to cook for her as he had for Georgia, to offer the oil and wine from his own lands, to spread pleasure, as he always had.

  He was not yet asleep when the dream came.

  Georgia watched the dawn. It was her first.

  No universal night, no sun rising or setting, no seasons or passing hours controlled the Summerlands. Summer, in effect, was both permanent and absent. The dawn, a flooding majesty in a thousand blazing golden stratus, was her own concept and did not cover all her vision. It had come, symbolic, as her awakening from concentration, and signalled her success.

  Her awakening was not from sleep but from dream.

  She first dreamed of a tall man driving a winding road of scarlet poppies and swooping swallows. Then his face, beloved in all its warm familiar grain and curve, had for
med in the creases of her own mind. So she had dreamed of Romano, and had spoken to him, holding him, comforting them both.

  As Norwen had explained, so she had done, and knew that as far as she was yet able, it had been successful. Spontaneous contact was often achieved. There were no rules for such events because they were controlled by other forces. But to instigate contact herself was neither easy nor comfortable for lowering her vibrations to such an extent felt like suffocation. But she had done it. And having done it, found it wonderful.

  “It will be harder as you settle further into this existence,” Norwen had told her. “A little practise will help, but once you move into higher planes, your vibrations will be even faster and you will find it virtually impossible to slow sufficiently. But then of course, as you reach the highest planes of all, everything again becomes easy for your own power will be immense.”

  “Then I must start at once,” Georgia said.

  Because Romano had been thinking of her, it had been wondrously satisfying. No heavy sensation of being back on the life-plane, but simply the warmth of physical touch again, the merging of minds, embracing love to love, like the switching on of a light bulb.

  She could not see him clearly as she once had for her eyes were no longer attuned to vision on such a level but she saw him as if reflected back from her own mind, a mixture of her memories and his presence, an awareness which took the place of sight and was an encompassing of his spirit. She knew he recognised her, and held her, loving her. She was elated and kissed him, telepathically, with all the depth of her new excitement.

  So that when the experience drifted and was gone, she awoke with such delight that the dawn shone like a spreading arch of fire. It was not being alive with him again, but it was as true, and she thought that she might repeat it, if she tried.

  The sudden knowledge of her was so strong that Romano lay almost unbreathing, afraid that if he breathed too forcefully she might disappear. At first the danger was in discovering that all the bright sensation was illusion after all. Then the intensity of her was so vibrant, so pulsing with personality that he knew beyond doubt she was with him.

  He saw nothing but the sense of her nearness was tangible. He heard, within his mind, the whispering of her promises. “You are not alone. In a way, I am still with you. Look, our separation is not so final. I am still here. I have not entirely gone. Think of me, because I am always thinking of you.”

  For the long observance of his own thoughts, Wilmot stayed alone. When finally he chose interruption, it was immediately answered.

  “I have studied,” Wilmot said, “but discover no clarified comprehension within myself.”

  “I am comprehension,” replied the voice he had expected. “And I am within your self.”

  “But you are the part of myself into which I have not yet grown,” Wilmot said. “When I need answers for my apprentice, they are there, waiting for him already. But when I desire answers for myself, I find only echoes.”

  “Echoes are also answers,” said his own inner voice. “You have known everything once, for I am you, and I know everything. It is therefore in echoes that the answer to everything lies.”

  “I am haunted by echoes,” sighed Wilmot.

  “Welcome whatever haunts you. A haunting is always – and can only be – the first hint of whatever you truly need. Abandon control. Shrink into me.”

  The swirling pyres of singing perfume surrounded him. Wilmot was at home, but his home, as his appearance, no longer held single or singular physical form. The boundaries of his shelter were framed only by pleasure. To a lesser spirit they would seem inconsequential. To himself, they were as stable and as beautiful as the walls of a singing palace of soaring stone. But now, in his shifting indecision, his fountains had become tremulous.

  “Absorb me then,” Wilmot commanded. And the power within him absorbed him as ordered, taking him deep and warm.

  “As I am the part of you” the voice murmured, “which connects your individuality to the God Source within your spirit, so you rightly call me the essence of Love. Remember that, for my Love is our Love, which is your Love and therefore always available to you when you call on it.”

  “Because,” Wilmot sighed, “I shall merge and melt and become you at the ultimate end of each ‘between’. And each reincarnation will bring me to a deeper connection, and so each between will exalt further. But during this between, I am only still on the ninth plane – a poor sad entity divorced from Love.”

  “You find such humility amusing? You are in no manner divorced from Love and know this with both heart and soul.”

  “I find everything amusing. The exultation of humour is my saviour.”

  “Replace humility with Love. What you do for your apprentice, you must also do for yourself,” said the voice within. “He is always in your thoughts. You must find places there also for yourself.”

  “Primo is almost ready for me,” Wilmot murmured. “I shall know great joy in our first meeting. My joy, at first, will be greater than his. But I shall bring him joy too, as he begins to know me.”

  His deeper soul-voice once again answered him. “It is always easier to protect others. But until you are ready for the tenth plane, you remain vulnerable to your own remaining needs. You are close, so very close. But the necessary sequence has places still unfulfilled within you.”

  Wilmot smiled. “Unfulfilled emptiness can be beautiful too.”

  “Like the boy, Primo,” said the voice. “Your apprentice is fashioned almost entirely of vulnerability and unfulfilled emptiness.”

  “I love him too,” nodded Wilmot.

  Chapter Ten

  “So what makes you think there aren’t any gangs here too?” Daisy said. “Maybe living further inland, just like before.”

  “Why should there be?” demanded Primo. “The third plane had gangs. This is the fourth. It’s peaceful and beautiful. It’s where the animals and the birds come. When I flew over, people waved.”

  “I like it best here in the mountains,” said Daisy. “No one else comes to bother us and it’s safe.”

  “That’s like hiding,” said Primo. “Being safe is just cowardly.”

  “Okay so I’m a coward. It seems like common sense to me.”

  “Well, I’m moving,” Primo told her. “I’m growing out of this hut. I want a bigger view, maybe even people. This is hardly any higher than the third, is it? It’s only just through the fogs. Really it’s just part of the border. You can still see the banks if you go past that ledge. So, maybe I’m ready for further into the proper plane. You can have this house and stay here if you want, but I’m moving. I feel restless.”

  “You once said something about loving me,” murmured Daisy. “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t leave.”

  “If you loved me, you’d come with me,” said Primo.

  “I never said I loved you,” said Daisy. “I just don’t like being alone.”

  “Make up your own mind,” said Primo. “I’m going. Not because I don’t want you. Actually, I’d prefer it if you came. I do love you, even when I don’t want to. But I can’t stay in a place I’ve grown out of. The vibrations just won’t let me.”

  “They all leave.” Daisy had the hiccups. “All the bastards leave, when they want something else. You’re as selfish as Pigseed, and I think I probably hate you.”

  Primo smiled. “Don’t be a big kid. Come with me. I’ll look after you, if you come.”

  “Piss off,” said Daisy, and turned her back.

  He left about an hour later. He hung around first, half nervous, half hoping Daisy would change her mind. Then she started cooking again, conjuring up a variety of vegetables and making a cheese sauce. The smell made him bilious. He called the harpy, and walked out.

  He climbed, enjoying the solidity beneath his feet and the effort of covering land. He had meant to fly, but found that some reluctance in his own mind was keeping his feet on the ground. The first cliffs made for hard climbing, the slipping
of pebbles and the scurry of dust, the interference of misty fingers from the far barrier and the wind in his face. Then as he got lower, it was easier. He walked slowly beside the river that tumbled white from above, stopped to splash water on his hands and face, and then strode on. He found he did not sweat and nor was he breathless. No sensation of effort replicated within his body. His legs were strong as long as his determination continued. After some time he reached the lower slopes and began to run.

  It was a long time since he’d run and then it had been to run away. Now it was for the pleasure of movement, exercise and abandon. He was invigorated, the air was fresh and the breeze smelled sunny and mild. There was a perfume of foliage too, a pine scent from the tall trees and the sweeter rumour of flowers. The river travelled with him, and so did the harpy. She flew above, first ahead to the tree tops, then waiting until he caught up. She asked if he would fly. He said he liked to see the countryside he was passing through and so he’d sooner walk. She shook her top-knot-crest, sat amongst the high branches of a pine tree and slept for some minutes. Then he sat at the bottom with the trunk at his back and waited for her in turn.

  Beyond that he was in the forests. It became quickly dark and the warmth was muted between the shadows. And then, quite suddenly, something he couldn’t see but could feel very strongly, stopped him mid stride and made him frightened as hell. The fear was ice, dousing him from the tips of his ears down to his groin. Scared shitless, Primo stood quite still. It was the nastiest feeling he’d had since dying. Being torn to shreds by Pigseed’s gang hadn’t even been this bad and at least with that he’d understood what was going on. This was quite different. He nearly turned and raced back to Daisy and the cliffs, but he didn’t. He stood and stared, trying to see what was coming at him.