Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Ron frowned at Ayakis. “And since it’s surprised every one of us, maybe soon we’ll find out exactly who really did follow the true path all through life.”

  Ethel nodded vigorously. “Yes. Get the real story behind the different religions. See who did give the right teaching all along.”

  “I’ve told you,” said Francesco patiently, “and I’ll say it again. This is Purgatory. You lot may be surprised by where we are, but I’m not. It’s exactly what I expected. So you can keep your doubts to yourselves. I know what the true religion is, and always have.”

  “Infidel,” said Ayakis, though keeping well apart. “Fool. Sinner. You will all burn in Hell.”

  Which is when the explosion came, and the growing warmth of the mist became a blasting heat, and the faded twilight became a sudden, billowing scarlet.

  “Oh my God,” said Ethel, “it’s hellfire after all.”

  Ayakis fell flat on his face and began to sob. Ron clutched Ethel and Francesco looked up in utter astonishment. The bus driver squealed and fell over and Father Martin covered his face with his beard and his hands and began frantically to pray.

  Then the logical man stared, blinked, and coughed. “It’s a flaming volcano,” said Wilhelm. “Now how do you get volcanoes in Heaven?”

  The volcano rose in a sparking roar of flame from the depths of the pit below the fogs, and spat its violence high above. The heat was palpable but did not burn. Amongst all the other matters that no one had expected, this seemed the most unexpected of all.

  Quite alone again, Primo lay in the gentle water of his forest pool and looked first up at the ceiling, which was clean white plaster beneath dark wooden beams, and then down at the rippled water around his body and its echo of the green and leafy reflection of the trees outside, not seen by looking up or out but only by looking down. There also, framed by branches and the breeze in the fluttering blossoms, was Primo’s own reflection, which smiled at him, whether he smiled at it or not.

  “I wonder,” said Primo, though quite silently, “if you know more than I do.” The reflection continued to smile. “I went into the nothingness pit,” Primo thought, “and you didn’t. I had no reflection there, at least, not one I could see. So what I learned there, you didn’t. So do I know more than you? Or did you know it already, and never needed the lessons I’ve learned?”

  Primo had sometimes heard the singing of the water in other places, in the high tumbling waterfalls of the cliffs where he had first built a home he was proud of. There had been streams, and a wide river. They had made music too. Now his own pool sang. The melody was faint, like the shallow weed-warm water it was, with its strange and persistent reflections. It was not a complicated song and the notes repeated, but Primo thought it mysteriously beautiful, and then he thought it sad. It sang of vulnerability. The pool repudiated the solid ceiling above and yearned to look up into the forest trees and the sky beyond, not the confines of his small home. It gave life to a thousand creatures, the darting minnows, tadpoles and their sudden, inspired metamorphosis. There were creatures even tinier, which floated or swam or hid in crevices. There were fronded plants and sluggish weed. There were the ripples themselves, which appeared to have a will of their own and clung to the freedom of choice. Yet the pool remained eccentric and unhappy. It did not love his home. Primo was sorry.

  He blinked, and turned, and immediately found his ceiling was gone. The pool reflected the same forest scene, but now the trees gazed uninhibited upon the water that loved them. On one branch the harpy roosted, her head under her wing. Had she not been an eagle, Primo thought, and smiled, she would be curled beside him in bed. It is hard to embrace an eagle, but in his mind he often did. He shut his eyes. But he still saw the woods and the bird, for, just as the pool had reflected the scene beyond the ceiling, so Primo’s eyes saw beyond his own eyelids. So he lay back and sang with the water music. The song was brighter now, thrilling and free and harmonious. The notes did not repeat. The water was now enthusiastic and deliciously, bubblingly happy.

  “I wonder,” Primo wondered, “without the roof, if I’ve lost some of my house, or gained a forest.”

  A small row of yellow frogs were sitting on the bank regarding him. Then he noticed huge claws shift beyond the tiny webbed feet and saw the cassowary leaning down to drink. The absent-minded hornbill was sitting on a chair back, and a small flock of finches had alighted on a low bush. Primo decided that he had gained a forest.

  Romano was busy in the kitchen and Julian was helping, passing the salt and the tomatoes and pulling the heads off bunches of basil. The reflected glory of the midday sun was strong on the rows of glazed earthenware and enamelled jars.

  “Chop the tomatoes, no don’t bother peeling them, life is too short. Our own from the garden, and fresh herbs too, though until summer the leaves remain small. Melanzane from the basket, the ones we bought from the village yesterday. Now, the olive oil.”

  “Green as Columbian emerald mines.” Julian passed the large bottle, heavy as a keg. “Unpolished jewels. In England, olive oil is a washed out yellow with a tinge of brown like tannin.”

  “Now the wine, plenty of wine.”

  “To drink, my darling boy, or just for cooking?”

  “Both,” smiled Romano. “No one can cook well without the necessary lubrication.”

  He spoke to his simmering pans, encouraging their busyness, admonishing the bubbles, urging the ingredients to release their colours and tastes. “Pommodori,” he addressed them, “split and soften. Show your red Italian energy, gained from this red Italian soil. We have guests, who are waiting, and hungry, and need to be impressed by all your effort.”

  But Sophie was out, walking with Wayne. She had engineered it while Julian was busy with Romano in the kitchen. And perhaps, just perhaps, Romano had intended it, for Romano seemed to understand a great deal and just smiled, and said very little.

  There was a stream and a slightly crumbling stone bridge, but the water was low and in places the stream was little more than a gurgle and a slick of damp across the muddy bed. Wayne stood on the bridge.

  “Come on, let’s walk down over the stones. The water gets deeper further on.”

  “Romano says there are eels,” said Sophie. “I don’t think I want eels round my ankles.”

  “Don’t be such a wuss,” grinned Wayne. “They’ll be more scared of us, than us of them.”

  “Don’t eels bite?” Sophie didn’t like eels but there were other reasons. Women were supposed to be vulnerable. Men were supposed to protect women.

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her, running down from the little hillock of bridge and into the cool shadows below. They both stopped then and pulled off their sandals, plunging into the trickling stream and the suck of wet earth. There were sun freckles and wriggling things, but the water didn’t even reach to her ankles. “It tickles my feet,” Sophie laughed.

  “Hell, it’s just a spongy sludge. Come on, let’s walk down where it’s deeper.”

  “It’ll be cold.” Though probably just a cool relief from the heat of the day.

  For some time she had imagined Wayne touching her, caressing. Kissing. Now it was all going to happen at last. He was a good deal taller and Sophie gazed up, wondering if she looked feminine and alluring, or just like a silly kid with chubby cheeks and a smudge on her nose. Trying to flirt. Probably failing.

  Then Wayne bent his head and Sophie leaned up on tiptoe to meet, mouth to mouth, nose to nose, and slipped in the squelch. Before she fell he had caught her, arm around her waist and the glint of his eyes encompassing her horizon. The sweet thrill of body against body, recompense for the sharp twist to her ankle. Lips smacked like children kissing for the first time.

  He didn’t put his tongue in her mouth. “It’s lunch time. Romano’ll be waiting. We ought to go back.”

  She was disappointed. “Is it so late?”

  “Well, five minutes then,” and he grabbed her hair in one hand, her arm in the other, and pulle
d her down. The wet earth flattened beneath them and the water surged into her ears. Water, or eels, or perhaps just passion, but she couldn’t hear and her heart beat like hammers. Wayne’s hand moved to the buttons of her shirt.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The house appeared to be empty of all but shadows. They streamed from the stairwell, the open doorways and the shrouded corners. It reeked of silence and dust. Georgia called, small voiced. “Are you Rita? Are you there?”

  Georgia acknowledged the idiocy of being frightened, but her nervousness made her shiver and cling to the dusty banister. She remembered Norwen’s warnings, and wondered if her own fear would make everything shrink around her. But being frightened to be frightened was unlikely to help. She called, “I don’t mean any harm. Truly I don’t. I only want to visit,” and hoped that her voice sounded reassuring.

  She had seen her mother enter, so the emptiness must be illusion. Georgia turned to leave and then changed her mind. She tried to push open one door, found her body passed directly through its substance, but discovered herself nowhere. The doorway was all façade for no room led beyond it. The stairs also climbed nowhere for at the height of the ceiling, they stopped. Each time she walked the hallway and attempted another door, she found she was back in the same spot. Only one room seemed to open into actual space, but here the darkness was equally complete. Outside had been two floors with rows of windows. Inside was one room with many unexpected oddly angled corners, and the windows ceased to exist. It was cold.

  “I’m Georgia,” she whispered, hearing her own voice as sadly plaintive. “I’m your daughter. I haven’t come to quarrel. Just to see you and talk to you. Will you come out?” Then, and with it felt her courage bolstered, she noticed that her own figure gave out a small light and illuminated, for just the fraction that was needed, the stark blackness of the room. Adjusting her sight to the unexpected, Georgia studied her surroundings.

  The one room was large and pillared in gloom but a central archway divided the living from the kitchen area. A wall of blank, blocked windows was carefully curtained and the floral chintz hung in thick folds, framing bare brick. Several comfortable chairs grouped around a central space, with a rug and coffee table. The kitchen – unexpectedly – housed a cooker, sink and fridge and other familiar objects, shiny and modern, though lacking the buzz of busy motors. There was insufficient light to recognise colours but a general cleanliness seemed apparent, and in spite of the shadows, a cheerful cosiness.

  Since the only light came from herself, Georgia stood very still for a moment and concentrated. With optimism and determination, she increased the glow and found she could produce an aura of golden beams. The room sprang further into clarity. It was pretty in blues and pinks and the curtains were bright poppies against a wheaten field. She was temporarily proud of herself, but the pride faded. She could not see her mother.

  “I’m sorry,” said Georgia at last. “I shouldn’t have pushed into your home like this. I suppose I was rude. I mean, I would never have done this while we were alive, but your door was open, and I can walk right through it anyway. I did try knocking first.”

  Her voice trailed into dismal futility and her bright light diminished. She turned and left the room, reluctantly waiting in the corridor for a few moments before stepping back into its outer opening. The front door still hung askew and the drear mist of an eternal twilight leaked through from outside.

  “Are you really little Georgia?” whispered a shadow from above.

  Georgia whirled back, staring upwards. The woman in the red coat sat hunched on the top step of the staircase, her head bent beneath the flat barrier of the ceiling. She hugged her knees, peering down suspiciously. She looked awkwardly uncomfortable but the shadow in which she had immersed herself had begun to come adrift.

  “Oh yes, I promise it’s me,” said Georgia with a gulp, and her light lost timidity again. “Please will you come down and talk?”

  Rita unbent and scuffled downwards, first on her haunches until she could straighten, and then shifted to a confident swagger. Film star entrance. “Little Georgia, eh? I expected Maurice to come snooping one day, but not you. I thought you’d still be over there.”

  She led the way back into her living room. Georgia followed and dutifully sat. “No. I’m here. Just a month or two ago.”

  “I’ll make some tea,” said her mother.

  Rita made tea as she had all her life. The taps gave water. She filled a kettle and set it on the stove to heat. She put tea leaves from a canister into a teapot, and stood it ready for when the water boiled. Georgia eyed her in some surprise but stood dutifully silent.

  Finally they sat and stared at each other and drank hot tea from small china cups. Rita passed the biscuits. They were extremely tasteless. Feeling she was chewing on wet cardboard, Georgia considered her words with some care. “I got permission,” she said at last, “to come and look for you. I don’t live around here. I died a couple of months ago, from breast cancer. Of course, I wasn’t sure if you were dead or not.”

  Rita scowled and put her cup on the coffee table with a rattle. “We don’t use words like that here,” she said. “If you’re going to be rude, you can bugger off.”

  Georgia was bemused. “What word?” Rita glared, staring, rigid. “Breast? Cancer? Permission?” asked Georgia. Then she realised and giggled. “You mean dead and dying? You think that’s rude? So where do you think we are, then?”

  Rita grew angrier and her cheeks flushed the same colour as her lipstick. “Oh yes, typical you are,” she said. “Don’t think I can’t see. You’re from those other levels, all high and mighty and talking so free and easy. Well, I’ll have you know we have our sensibilities on this plane. We don’t go talking about personal things and we don’t use rude words. If you’re like that, you can get back where you came from.”

  “I’m not going. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with admitting we’re dead.” Georgia took a deep breath. “Goodness, we’re in Heaven. Isn’t that a good thing to talk about?”

  The answering silence disturbed her. The shadows were growing again, creeping in from the many corners. Georgia’s own light, affected by doubt, was fading once more. When Rita finally spoke, her voice hissed. “You’ve come to insult me. I should have known. You hate me. Alright, you might as well admit it. Then get out.”

  “Oh this is ridiculous,” said Georgia. “I don’t hate you and I didn’t come to hurt you. How could I anyway?”

  “You’re trespassing,” spat Rita. “I never invited you. Bugger off.”

  Georgia’s cup rattled. Her fingers trembled and she was ashamed to discover her own weakness, so she swallowed her own answering anger, and summoned resolve. “No I won’t,” she said, biting her tongue. “Not now I’ve got this close,” and then realised, staring through the swirls of gloom, that her mother was crying.

  Georgia stared, suddenly overwhelmed with pity. She had been disturbed by her own sudden anger, and now realised how futile her reactions had been. They had told her you couldn’t sustain anger in the Summerlands but Rita’s hot defensive anger had ignited her own. The balance of understanding had shifted, and absurdly, Georgia acknowledged a new creeping shame.

  Rita was all eyes. Georgia stuttered, choosing words then changing her mind.

  “Get out,” hissed the person behind the eyes. Georgia stood.

  She had never known her mother. This was an hysterical and increasingly strange stranger. She had no comprehension either of the woman, or the plane upon which she lived. It had been the same perhaps, so very often the same, while alive. Life’s Earth brought dissension in partnership, in learning and in conversation when those of different planes confused motives. Not a capricious misunderstanding, but differing meanings, differing goals. On Earth the separate planes were merged. No delineating fogbanks to separate, and so explain those confusions. People believed they inhabited the same place but mentally they did not. Only the symbols were b
lurred.

  Georgia snapped back to the moment. Her mother had begun to struggle, retreating into the chair, eyes glazed, noisy sobbing racking the small body. So kneeling beside her chair Georgia looked up, imposing a calm she did not in the least feel herself. “You’re frightened of me? But I’m not a monster,” she said quietly. “I’m only your daughter. Do I seem so monstrous? Is it the light? I can’t help that. It isn’t a bad thing, is it? I’m sorry about saying – about using certain words. I honestly didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Rita cringed. “Of course you hate me. I’m not a fool. I abandoned you as a kid and you hate me for it. You’ve come back to punish me.”

  Shaking her head a little wildly, Georgia said in a hurry, “That’s not true. For goodness sake, I couldn’t punish you even if I wanted to and I promise I really, really don’t want to.”

  She put her hand on her mother’s knee for reassurance but Rita jerked as though stung. “Your light hurts. It’s sharp. You’ll stab me right through.”

  Startled, Georgia moved away, sitting back onto her heels. Her confusion brought Norwen immediately into her head. “She believes you are an admonishing angel. Her own guilt creates the appearance she expects and feels she deserves. The light you emanate, being the essence of the seventh plane which you carry with you, to you is a simple protection against the chills of the fifth. But to a resident of the fifth, it is a violent abuse, an accusation, and therefore is vivid and hurtful to their sight. She expected your anger. When you showed none, she felt it anyway.”

  “And this dislike of mentioning death?” Georgia asked in her mind.

  “All the terror of death which most people feel when alive, can be carried over even after death has occurred and proved itself benign,” said Norwen. “To some here, even the word retains its horror. Now you must talk to this woman and recreate the ease she needs in order to accept you. If you cannot do that, you must leave, and return another time.”