Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Gregorio, who had kept very much to himself after losing his son, suddenly snorted. “For a religious man, you’ve a damned silly idea about Heaven.”

  “Oh great,” said Francesco, swirling around with a scowl. “Now the village idiot thinks he can criticize me as well. And what happened to all your humble faith then? What are you expecting? A marble palace no doubt. A bus of your own with a golden garage?”

  Gregorio shook his woolly head. “I know my scriptures and I know what the good priests taught. It’s judgement first, and then the holy angels. I know what to expect. And it’s certainly not retsina and saganaki for supper.”

  Francesco opened his mouth and found himself interrupted by Father Martin. “This is not the time for arguments, my son. You are free to believe in Purgatory if you wish. Believe in a country cottage and food on the table by all means. I have no objections to your beliefs, but we can see what’s waiting for us below. Now we should combine our efforts to find a way down.”

  “Knot sheets,” sniffed Francesco.

  “Sarcasm,” said Gregorio with a deep inhale of breath, “is the humour of inferior men.”

  “If I push you off,” muttered Francesco, “then we can see how long it takes you to land. You won’t squash now, will you? Won’t die! Might be some use for once.”

  Gregorio inhaled again, expanding his solidity of chest. He was considerably larger than Francesco. “Now it’s down to pushing, is it? Well, let’s see who pushes who.”

  “Brothers, brothers,” sighed Father Martin, “this is not helping.”

  “You, you pathetic hypocrite,” said Ayakis from his somewhat distant perch, “I heard what you were muttering before. You dress as a holy man, but you’ve a lifetime of sin and guilt behind you. I heard you praying for forgiveness.”

  Francesco turned on him. “Perhaps it’s you I should push over the edge. You’re so keen on being the martyr. Perhaps you’d like to volunteer.”

  “No man is free from sin,” said Father Martin quietly to his sandals.

  “We need parachutes,” said Gregorio, leaning over the balustrade. Hearing a movement behind him, he pulled back quickly, but it was the old monk, still scratching his beard.

  “It’s a very, very long way down,” said Father Martin, peering down dubiously. “Ten times higher than my monastery. Fifty times. A hundred kilometres perhaps.”

  “Perhaps it’s a test of faith,” suggested Gregorio. “Like the fire. That volcano wasn’t really there at all, once we faced it. I’ll risk jumping if you will, Father.”

  Father Martin paused, cleared his throat and moved to the centre of the path away from the edge. “I don’t think we should do anything rash, my son,” he said. “Tests of faith are all very well, but until God sends us a sign, we shouldn’t presume too much. That would be arrogance.”

  “Or simple cowardice,” smiled Ayakis, nibbling a finger nail.

  So they sat on the high archway with both Ayakis and Francesco keeping a careful distance from the others, and stared down in hopeless yearning at the blissful beauty of a rural and golden land which lay so far below that it encompassed every horizon. Above them the fogs had drifted into the gentle wafting of translucent cloud. As the clouds danced, playing peacefully together against the warmth of the sky, so their shadows flitted like tiny scampering grey rabbits across the scene below. There was little other movement visible. No townships or villages, no houses at all. No people. No angels nor choirs of heavenly hosts. The tops of trees like minute green blobs, shifted sometimes as if caught in a breeze. The land was mostly flat though in places undulating and crossed by fields, occasionally by small woodlands, the suggestion of sandy winding lanes, and streams which caught the flash of sunshine. There was a lake which reflected the clouds but not the arching roadway and its four confused, remaining travellers.

  The sun was pleasant but neither vivid nor intense. The wind was not strong. Everything remained gentle, aimless perhaps, welcoming but unapproachable, serene but a little mundane, beautiful but not glorious. Francesco could almost believe he smelled Cinzia’s tagliatelle Bolognese, which had long been his favourite. Gregorio almost thought he heard the lilt of harp music and the soft chanting of prayer. Ayakis almost thought he saw the glint of gold and the preparation of the feast to celebrate his honourable arrival. But Father Martin thought he felt an increasing heat which could turn at any minute to the threat of hellfire, while all the hopeful illusion of Heaven below them melted away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wayne came to her that night. Sophie had left her door open a little, a welcome to the moonlight, to the creeping shadowed warmth, and to pattering feet. The moon was nearly full and its rising puddled in pearly stripes across the floor boards. Impossibly romantic.

  Wayne climbed into the big white bed and cuddled up beside her, one hand tentative across her breast. “You’re sure you want this?” whispered warm breath in her ear.

  She’d made it clear enough that afternoon under the bridge. “Oh yes. I’m free to make my own decisions you know. Romano isn’t my uncle or anything.” She wrapped one leg around his.

  “Julian’s told me all about everything. It’s a good story. Romano’s nice. It’s amazing of him to invite us all to stay here. Especially me. I mean, I’m no one.”

  “Stop talking,” said Sophie, and kissed him. His tongue tasted like dinner’s red wine.

  “Was my mother so terrible?” Georgia asked with a small sniff. “She’s selfish perhaps, and silly. But is that so bad? Why is she on the fifth plane, while Dad and I are on the seventh?”

  “What your mother did in life is not for me to see,” said Norwen, who was not present but simply in Georgia’s head. “Nor can I judge her state of mind, nor her spiritual progress. I would never judge anyone, and now rarely even myself. But each plane welcomes those who are naturally a part of its vibrations. There can be no mistakes and no punishments. Each soul arrives where its expectations, according to its state of mind, take it. There is no hell. The lower planes exist because they are fashioned from the attitudes and expectations of those who live there.”

  “But my mother doesn’t like where she lives,” said Georgia. “It’s not what she wants at all. Her house is horrid and pokey and cold and dark. She’s jealous of people like me who live on the sixth and seventh.”

  “Exactly,” said Norwen’s invisible smile.

  “She’d be happier with me,” insisted Georgia.

  “Happiness comes only from peace of mind,” said Norwen. “Total peace of mind begins only on the eight plane, when spirit begins to free itself from the pull of the physical.”

  “But you’ve talked of reincarnation,” continued Georgia. “So you’re saying we have to forget all the nonsense of physical life – become wonderfully spiritual – climb up the scale of higher planes – and then get shoved back down to earth again into a new life? That sounds so pointless.”

  Norwen laughed. “You are thinking in terms of purely physical references,” he said. “I will give you an outline of the spirit dimension. Though, because you do not yet understand spirit entirely, the explanation will be over-simplified.”

  Georgia sat in her own garden, a rough tangle of avid green life, of flower and shrub and hillock. Already Norwen had told her that her garden was a symbol of her emotional state, and so she had been gardening. The growth there was rich and smelled sweet, but it was hopelessly untamed. She lay now, looking up into the incredible infinity of what appeared to be a sky above, and smiled, and nodded. “Go on. I’m listening, very carefully. What you call over-simplified will probably seem dreadfully complicated to me.”

  “Not at all,” said Norwen’s thoughts. “It begins with a basic understanding of what you call God. Yes, of course, God, whatever name we give Him, is the creative force of utter Good. He exists everywhere. He therefore exists also in you. You carry the seed of Goodness within you, and always have. It is your foundation of divinity, and from it grows your potential and your individua
lity. That part of God which is personal, for He is also impersonal and abstract, resides within our own personalities.”

  It was the warm dither of Norwen’s voice, merging with the sunshine and the peace, the perfumes and the comfort, which lulled Georgia into a sleep so soft and so sweet that she continued listening, and absorbed what was meant and not only what was said.

  He had not come to her that night. After three nights of loving, Sophie continued to leave her door open but on the fourth, Wayne had not climbed into her bed, had not held or kissed her, and had made no surreptitious excuses the next morning.

  Warm hours had snoozed into days, each bee in poppy buzzing sunshine snatched by a cicada twilight, then flooding into the magical owl swooped night, and finally Wayne’s arms on cool crisp linen and caressing fingers in her hair.

  It never lasted very long and couldn’t be described as Earth-moving. But it was immeasurably sweet and she loved him. He had stopped wearing plastic anoraks and became increasingly bronzed, bare chested and admirable. He’d switched from hiking boots with unravelling seams and scuffed leather, to rubber flip-flops. He was the first Adonis of her own age that had come her way in a long while and after the wretched, hopeless drudgery of nursing her sick mother, this boon of touch, of caring, physical loving, was the gift she’d looked for.

  It was the brilliance and contrast of orange sandals and Hawaiian shorts that attracted her notice from the shade of her favourite olive tree. She had wandered off from the sleepy stone patio where Julian sat enwrapped, listening to Romano’s rural memories and entranced as much by his lounging elegance and lilt of accent as his stories, and had gone to look for Wayne. Wayne was alone under the olives, lost in his own thoughts.

  “Am I interrupting?” interrupted Sophie.

  Wayne was already smiling, having watched her approach. “No. Sit down.”

  She hadn’t intended to say it, but she couldn’t resist the query. “Have you gone off me?”

  Wayne grinned. “Don’t be so bloody silly.”

  “But you didn’t come last night,” she said, sitting down cross legged beside him. Some of last year’s fallen olives were still sticky on the grass.

  “Perhaps I didn’t eat my spinach yesterday.”

  “If you don’t want me, you don’t have to,” said Sophie. “I mean, we’re both free. Just tell me if you don’t want to anymore. It’s horrid just wondering.”

  “You’re such a baby,” said Wayne without rancour. “You think in clichés. How old are you anyway? Seventeen?”

  “Eighteen,” said Sophie. “And why do we have to do everything in secret? Romano won’t mind. Anyway, I think he knows. He sort of seems to know everything. He seems to look right through me sometimes.”

  “So do I,” laughed Wayne. “You’re so transparent.”

  “Well, whatever,” Sophie looked at her toes. “I’ve made my feelings pretty clear. The rest is up to you.”

  Wayne leaned over and took her hand and squeezed it. “Look, don’t be hurt. Of course I like you. And since you don’t approve of secrets, I’ll tell you something I wasn’t going to. Stop me if you prefer – but it’s about your mother.”

  “What do you want to know?” said Sophie, surprised. “You said Julian had told you everything about my mother and Romano. But anyway you’re right, I don’t like secrets so just ask whatever, and I’ll tell you.”

  Wayne shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’m not asking. I’m telling. Look, I’ll have to explain something first.” He still held her hand. “Do you believe in being psychic? In mediums and things? Or are you impossibly against that sort of thing?”

  Sophie had thought about it a great deal in the first days after her mother’s death. “I’m open minded,” she said carefully.

  “Well, I’ll tell you then,” said Wayne. “See, I’m psychic. Always have been. Actually it was stronger when I was a kid, but I think that’s normal.”

  Sophie waited for him to get to the point. If he was going to say he’d had long chats with her mother, then she would laugh. “Go on.”

  “There’s a presence in this house,” said Wayne at last. “I don’t know who it is, but it’s probably her. Your mother. After all, with you and Romano both here together, this is where she’d be pulled, isn’t it? I just thought, since it’s pretty strong sometimes, if anyone wanted, I could do a séance.”

  “Oh, heavens,” said Sophie. “What would that entail? Maybe Romano wouldn’t like that. Do Catholics approve of séances?”

  Wayne leaned forward like a puppy rubbing noses. “Some people hate the idea. They’re frightened or shocked. Others refuse to think about it, or say it’s evil. Your Romano doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who’s rigid or easily scared. Anyway, I’m offering because I’m interested. If no one wants to take me up on it, then that’s fine. But ask him.”

  Sophie nodded. “Okay I will. I think it might be exciting. If Romano says yes, then I’d love to. Fancy being able to talk to Mum.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Primo did not dream again and his life became calm. Then his home began to grow.

  Quite quietly, when he was expecting no alterations since his mind was not noticeably expanding in any direction, the corridor which had previously led nowhere but into solid shadow, turned suddenly into a small warm room. It was more colourful than the others, windowless but curtained throughout in huge swathes of purple and crimson, deep and dark and a little secretive, moving incessantly with the whispering of taffetas and the murmurings of memory. The floor was carpeted and thickly luxurious. Without furniture, it somehow seemed complete just as it was, furnished in lush mystery, texture and colour.

  He was accustomed to doing his own building, and although what then transposed itself onto the atmosphere was not usually exactly what he had imagined, at least he was always aware of his own very conscious part of the creative process. He had wanted a swimming pool, a place of healing waters and cool soothing thoughts. As usual, he had first spent some time in contemplation, and had then walked its boundaries, imagining, summoning its transposition through his mind. He had been delighted with the result, with the manifestation of leaping, living pond, of plant and creature, fish and frog, and eccentric, self-willed reflections which had come partly from his own inner spirit and partly from the forest itself. Building had become like this. His earlier efforts had been less than he had hoped. Now they were more than he could possibly have wished.

  But he had not consciously built the new room. It had therefore developed from what had been a blocked potential.

  He was experienced enough in Summerland surprises to understand the meanings, but, sometimes, some things still amazed him. He had no particular use for the new room, but he was exceptionally pleased with it. It felt like home.

  He was in the pool, where he spent many thoughtful or less thoughtful hours, and was simply contemplating the fronds of a forest tree directly above, when he heard something. The sounds which accompanied his life were usually natural sounds, of beetle and lizard, cricket, weasel and bird. This was different. It creaked and banged like someone chopping down his walls. So he jumped out of the pool and ran wet footprints into his main room of living. He suspected Sam, Daisy or some other intruder, but there was no one and no intrusion of human voice or belligerent thought. He sat on his favourite chair, which was deeply cushioned though somewhat ragged at the back from eagle claws, and listened. His clothes were immediately dry and he felt warm and safe.

  Then the noises came again and he got up to investigate. That was when he realised that his home was expanding all around him.

  The recently new room of opulent materials had now unexpectedly sprouted a bed. It was a deep and beautiful bed with a coverlet of sage like the undergrowth outside. It was curtained in autumn russet, saffron gold and earthen browns. He already had a bedroom which he liked to rest in, although he preferred the pool. The pool supported him free of solidity. The waters held him in abstract and unchallenging bea
uty and he could stay there almost indefinitely, having requirement neither for food nor exercise. He didn’t bother to get undressed, and he did not attempt to wash himself in any sense, either mental or physical. He just floated. When he finally clambered back to solid ground and left the waters to the crawling, swimming things, he was always almost immediately dry. He would also feel inexplicably cleansed.

  Lying on a bed held a different fascination. It was dark and soothing in a more logical sense, whether or not a night time accompanied it. But Primo could not see, however attractive bed might be, that he needed two of them. A nasty suspicion crossed his mind. He didn’t want Daisy back anymore.

  He was standing in the new sprouted room, surveying the bed of curtains and shadows, when a voice came into his head that he had never heard before. It said, “You called?”

  “No I fucking didn’t,” said Primo at once. Strange voices in his head were something he certainly hadn’t asked for.

  “But you did,” insisted the voice rather plaintively. “I heard you. You wanted explanations. That means asking.”

  They paused, both waiting. “Go on then,” challenged Primo. “What question? What answer? And then you can piss off.”

  “Well, since you’re being so polite,” said the voice, “perhaps I won’t bother.”

  Primo grinned and sat on the bed. “First of all,” he said aloud, “you can give a name. You obviously know mine. Or one of them anyway. So what’s yours? I’m not going to chat to any old shitty nameless demons. And you can get out of my head and let me see you properly.”

  “Is that a proper invitation?” inquired the demon.

  “I suppose so. A reluctant one,” said Primo.

  “Well now, that’s better,” said the voice. “And while I’m at it, I know both your names. All three in fact. You okay with that?”

  “Not much pissing choice,” said Primo. “Come on then. Show yourself.”