Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  There was a hole. Invisible but clearly felt, his foot hovered on the edge, the pull of the ice forced his legs forward. Before him was an utter emptiness. It called with the insidious voice of the Siren, offering complete denial of life, the seduction of infinite rest, the unutterable temptation of nothingness. The temptation of death without continuance. Without the life of the spirit. Simply without.

  When alive he had never believed in any continuation of the personality after death, which had seemed simply the fantasy of children and idiots. Dying himself, he had been shocked to find existence sustained. He hadn’t wanted it. Instant annihilation of mind and body had seemed far preferable, rather than dragging on with the same tired old struggle. He soon discovered the struggle wasn’t really the same, but it was close enough.

  Now, though no longer wishing for it, he was pulled to the brink of that old belief and the possibility, the offer, of the absolute vacuum: life obliterated in any form or essence forever. But this time he was quite, quite sure he didn’t want it. It was pulling him in and he felt sick. He wrenched his feet back away from the nothingness pit, and doubled over, and was violently ill.

  He didn’t vomit food, not having eaten any for a long time. He vomited something else and he wasn’t sure what it was. He leaned back, gasping and wiping his mouth. He’d spat out something that stank, that moved away from him and that slid quietly into the black hole by his feet. He thought it might have been doubt, or fear, or some sort of bitter tasting pride. Somehow it mattered that he find out what it was. He didn’t feel any different but he’d spewed out whatever had been holding him back. The part of him that had brought him, and glued him, to the edge of infinite obliteration, was gone from him. A voluntary cleansing. Now he shuffled further from the void, and because he still felt too ill to stand, he collapsed and crawled.

  He was shivering, conscious of cold and weariness. “The fogbanks between the third and fourth weren’t this bad,” he muttered, gasping for the warmth of his own breath. “Even before I was really ready to move up, I got through the banks a few times. Fucking chilled, but in one piece. But this is crazy. Fucking crazy. If I’m not meant to come this far, then just shove me back. I’m not a moron, I’ll get the fucking hint. I still have the mountain hut. There’s Daisy and I miss her already. Send me back there and I’ll go. No fucking need to torture me first.”

  His knees got wet from the leaf litter and fallen twigs cut his hands, but he kept crawling. At last he curled where he was, trying to regain his composure and his peace, and found he was falling asleep. He bundled himself deeper into the undergrowth in case the black pit came to look for him, and let his eyes close. Then he was in the dream.

  He was falling into the pit. Within the dream he entered it, and faced the nothing.

  Primo knew he was asleep. More than simply sleeping but imprisoned in a dream which was removed from reality, but which he was forced to experience. First of all, the pain hit him.

  It wasn’t the simple agony of his face ripping off, a punch to the groin or losing his nose. It was ice streaming through his body and his mind and paralysing his will, his thoughts and every sense remaining to him. It was the epitome of pain and an attack against the sacred safety of his inner being. He’d never looked much at his inner self but now it was turned to frozen stone, and as such became intensely evident. His face was pressed to it. He watched himself freeze.

  As the dream dragged him into the nothingness he had tried to avoid, so he clutched at the invisible, non-existent sides. He knew, instinctively, that at the very end it would be complete and total disintegration, absorbed into utter empty destruction. But before that, there were small grip holds, places where he could cling as he was sucked down, holding for a few minutes to hope before losing also that illusion of strength.

  Each scrap of balance spoke to him, briefly, before his fingers numbed and he fell deeper inwards.

  “Such pain, such suffering,” whined the first crack. “Why you?”

  “Why not?” said Primo. It was not a temptation he’d ever listened to.

  His fingers slipped, dragging against the sensationless pit sides. He found the second hold.

  “Avoid further pain,” said the voice as Primo clung, his hands digging into dust. “Give up now. Let go. It will be quickly over. Fighting is too hard.”

  “I’ve never fucking given in,” said Primo, gritting teeth against numb lips. “You’ll never tempt me that way. Pain doesn’t matter. Giving in does.”

  The dust slipped. He kicked out and found another crevice. His fingers held.

  “Poor boy. Always punishment, never reward.” The voice came from the ledge of hope. “You only ever did what you had to, to survive. You don’t deserve such treatment.”

  “Bugger off,” spat Primo. “I deserve plenty. What difference does it make? Who’s counting? Just get on with it. I’ve never given in to self-pity. I’ll deal with whatever comes.”

  He slipped again. It was a deep fall but he landed on his knees, catching at the small shelf. It spoke as soon as he gripped at the rock face. “You hold to defiance,” sneered the voice. “Such wilful, proud determination. What have you ever done, to arouse such fierce arrogance?”

  Primo stood. Not a finger’s hold, but a level wide enough to support him, for the first time he balanced, wiped his hands on his tunic, and smiled. “Done? Fuck all,” he said. “But I’m me. No one else is me. I fought all the bastards, all my life, and I never gave in. So I’ll hold to pride. No bugger else ever helped me so I helped myself. Pride is all I’ve got, but it’ll do me fine.”

  “So,” said the voice, all sibilant malice, “if pride is not to come before the fall, tell me then, who you are so proud of. Who are you, dead man? What was the name in which you put such pride?”

  Primo opened his mouth but he opened his mouth to silence. With an awed and awful dread, he realised that during the time of his chosen incognito, he had, appallingly, forgotten his original status, his name, his self. He no longer knew who he was, and all his stout pride in his existence and intensely individual independence now meant nothing whatsoever. He was no one, and he stood alone on the brink of nothing. He let go.

  His fingers scrabbled and went limp. He fell into the black.

  Then he saw below him the dividing fork. There were two pits. One led to the end of everything. The other led back into his previous life. The life he’d lived before death and had chosen to forget. It seemed, for a moment, like the greatest threat of all.

  Renewing touch, re-lighting memories of Romano, Georgia stayed for some passing time by the sea, watching the dawn. It was prolonged, as protracted as her own wonder and as her own awakening. Only when her delight lessened, did the colours of the sky slip into pastel flowers and dip towards their ocean reflections.

  Georgia traced her fingers across the warmth of the sand. Its dampness held the last of the pinks from above. She wondered, perhaps for the very first time, why, once accustomed to some particular pleasure, it ebbed, tidal as every beauty fleetingly experienced.

  “Because,” said Norwen’s voice very softly into the back of her head, “you listen to pleasure with your heart instead of your spirit. Only spirit remains eternally.”

  “I always thought,” murmured Georgia, “that feeling with the heart was right. I mean, better than with logic or common sense. Aren’t emotions good, then?”

  “Everything is good,” said Norwen. “Because everything is part of your growth so it must be good. But the best of all goodness is spirit. Once you can experience with your deepest soul, then joy will never fade.”

  “Being dead,” she wondered, “doesn’t make me spirit automatically?”

  “You always were,” smiled Norwen. “Now, removed from the physical, you have lost the illusion of body weight and your spirit is raw and uncovered. But you are not deprived of heart or head, emotion or logic. These tools remain as long as you choose to make use of them. Once you are ready for the higher planes, you will grow out
of them. Logic fades first, for it is quickly obsolete. Then emotion, which refines directly into spirit. Instead, you will purify the experience of spirit that bursts through, unadulterated.”

  “Am I close to that?” she asked, hoping.

  “The concept of close is ambiguous here,” he replied. “You have arrived, as do most, on this plane where challenge is no longer necessary. Here you merely need to emerge from your need for habit, safety, and old ways of thinking. That can be slow, but can also be fast. The choice is always yours.”

  “You’ve often mentioned the lower planes,” she said. “Is it really so different there?”

  Norwen paused. “Yes,” he said at last. “It is different because those that die into those levels are different. They are the damaged souls, those that have embraced hatred and the other deep fears. They could not yet survive on the higher planes, or even here on the seventh. They must climb up at their own pace, as we all do. It can be challenging. But no one is ever lost.”

  He said his name was Ayakis. Cinzia had asked him.

  “Don’t talk to him,” said Francesco. “You shouldn’t even look at him.”

  “Look,” Cinzia trailed a little, appearing tired. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful and I’m not saying we weren’t happy all these years. You’ve been a good husband, caro, without a doubt. And we both loved the children. You were a good father, especially to Paola. But if we’re dead, and of course we are, I really don’t think you should be telling me what to do anymore.”

  “That’s right, hon. You tell him,” said Ethel.

  “Now suddenly everyone wants to argue,” grumbled Francesco. “Isn’t it enough we’ve all been murdered?”

  “I’m not arguing dear,” said Cinzia, still walking, still staring ahead into the confusion of cloud. “I just feel it’s time I behaved a little more independently, maybe time to start making my own way at last. My own choices, my own decisions, you know. Practise self-confidence, perhaps.”

  “My God,” growled Francesco. “The bloody woman decides to take up woman’s rights now we’re dead.”

  “Oh, shut up, will you?” demanded Wilhelm, trudging beside him. “You and your damned bad temper. You’re becoming a bore.”

  Francesco stopped walking. He stood and glared. “Mind your own damned business,” he said. “You’re a stranger here. What I do and what I say to my wife is up to me and no one else. If you don’t like it, bugger off.”

  “We’re all strangers here,” said Father Spiro. “Strangers in a strange land. Better to make friends if we can, and honour our state.” He had stopped beside the other two men and stood now, scratching his beard. “Mind you, it is all very puzzling. This lack of direction, this mist. I had hoped that someone might come for me, but it seems not to be so. Past sins perhaps. But in this fog, it’s hard to see or understand anything.”

  “We’ve given our lives to the religious calling,” grumbled Father Martin. “Past sins? I’ve never sinned in my life. And if I had, it should have been forgiven by now.”

  “I’ve told you all before,” grumbled Francesco, moving on beside his wife. “Your lot may not believe in it, but it’s here for all to see if you open your eyes. We’re in purgatory. Simple as that.”

  “Now please don’t start a religious argument on top of everything else,” interrupted Father Spiro, who had sat down for a rest. His sandaled toes had disappeared into the blur of drifting blue. “That’s why we’re here, unfortunately, why we’re all on this side. Religious differences.”

  “Yeh. A holy war,” sniffed Sven from ahead. “God has a lot to answer for.”

  “It’s this little worm has a lot to answer for,” said Francesco. “He’ll get his golden reward soon, no doubt. An eternity of hellfire I expect.”

  “Well, that might be true enough,” said Father Spiro, “but you must be careful yourself, my son. This fury, this hatred, it is tying you to the man you despise. You will be locked together and share the misery of the eternity you imagine. You should free yourself from anger and fear while there’s still time.”

  “Fear?” spat Francesco. “I’m afraid of nothing, you old fool. And you can keep your lectures to yourself since I don’t share your religious faith either. Now we’ll soon see who’s had the right beliefs all along.”

  The haze was closing in deeper, concentrating the faint perfumes. Cinzia put out her arms, letting the mist enclose and warm her. It was when she looked up that she saw the shapes. Her brother Sergio spoke at the same moment. “They’ve come for us my dear. Look, it’s mamma and Zio Luigi. Come, quickly.”

  Cinzia looked around. “And leave Francesco?”

  Sergio laughed. “You nearly did last year.”

  Cinzia smiled and ran towards her mother. The cloud took them with a burst of dazzle and the sound of laughter. Francesco whirled around.

  “It seems she’s gone on without you, hon,” said Ethel. “Our little group is diminishing.”

  “Well, I hope it’s our turn next,” said Ron. “Can’t say I’m any more comfortable with this vapour stuff than the rest of you. And I’ve sure no desire to get stuck with that murdering bastard at the back.”

  Behind them all wandered Mary, grieving for her husband left alive. Almost invisible within the cloud was the stumbling terrorist who half crawled, half paused, still hoping for glorious recognition, spluttering and heaving on mouthfuls of the mist, and moaning faintly from the pain of Francesco’s beating. “It is a terrible mistake,” he said to his knees. “They have forgotten me. But I did as I was told. I did nothing wrong.”

  Mary eyed him suspiciously. “You still think you did nothing wrong? You must be mad.”

  The man ignored her and hung his head, coughing.

  “Ayakis, isn’t it?” Mary persisted. “You murdered us all. And you think you did nothing wrong. Or is that the terrible mistake you’re muttering about?”

  Ayakis turned, resting on his haunches, balancing with tapered finger tips. “I wish to speak to no wicked uncovered woman,” he whispered. “You have no capability to understand. What point to explain?”

  “Please yourself,” said Mary.

  “But know this,” continued the man. “What I did was a great thing. I will be admired by all those left behind. I am a martyr for the holy cause, and will be remembered for a thousand years. And when the right people inform my God of my arrival, they will send for me. I will be escorted by angels. I will feast at God’s right hand. I will be served by slaves, and crowned in gold.”

  Mary giggled. “You’re just a little boy really, aren’t you,” she said. “I’m surprised you don’t hope for an ipod and a Play Station and some of those Dungeons and Dragons games while you’re at it. And I don’t suppose you even really understand what your holy cause is all about. You just wanted to be important, and get the rewards.”

  Ayakis frowned. “I said you couldn’t understand,” he muttered. “No female could understand such lofty subjects.”

  Mary opened her mouth to speak again, and stopped. Someone was calling her and she turned and began to run backwards, the way they had come. Parting the swirl of cloud, a solid figure marched into sight. Not the nebulous dazzle of the spangled beings who came for their loved ones, but a familiar and determined shape reaching towards her. “Mary? For God’s sake my love. Are you there?”

  Mary squeaked, “Brandon,” and flew into his arms.

  “Thank heavens,” said the man, squeezing her tight. “For a moment I thought I was all alone. Then I heard your voice. What’s happened? Do you know where we are?”

  “None of us do,” Mary shook her head. “We’re all dead of course. Someone thinks purgatory. Could that be it? But you were left alive, my sweet. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  The terrorist eyed the embraced couple and moved away. “Dead?” insisted Brandon. “You’re absolutely sure? So there’s really life after death?”

  “So it seems,” said Mary. “Of a sort, anyway.”

  “I came to on t
hat bus,” said Brandon. “The pain was terrible. Everything was all in flames and my legs were trapped. God, Mary, I saw you back there. You lay on your back, staring up at the sky and all that vile black smoke. You were covered in blood. I kept calling you, but you didn’t move. I seemed to be there for endless hours. I could see other people too, sprawled dead. There was a head on the road. The top of the bus had come off and people had been shot through. Time moved so slowly and the pain got worse and worse.”

  “Oh, my love. Don’t think about it anymore.”

  “Then I realised you were dead,” gulped Brandon. He still held her very tight. “I shut my eyes. I asked to die. Then I heard your voice. And here I am.”

  “And no more pain?”

  “Not now. I feel fine. Better than fine. So what was it? An accident?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sophie watched Julian’s back as he disappeared into the sunset blaze between the cypresses. The cuckoo called, and the wood pigeons answered. The gnarled olives bent their fingers into the shadows, one large lemon fell from its tree and the breeze slipped behind the hills. Julian’s departing figure swayed a little, the swing of the hips and the skip of a happy man. Sophie said, “Maybe he enthuses rather too much. But he means what he says. We’re both so terribly grateful. You can’t know just how happy you’ve made us both.”

  “I know very well,” smiled Romano. “I am not embarrassed by enthusiasm. Italy is a country that enjoys excess, and yet takes none of it seriously. Life is a game here, the food, the fashion, the wine. We make love in everything we do, and then laugh at it. I am as much a product of my culture as most of us, though there is a great deal I criticise. That is another part of the game.”

  “You make everything fun,” smiled Sophie. “I know why my mother liked you so much.”

  Romano grinned. “No, you do not know why, because there is a side of me you cannot and will never know,” he said. “Nor did she simply like me. You are very British. Are you frightened to talk of love? Is it so uncomfortable?”