«Interestingly, it is only modern man who makes such rash distinctions. And having made the distinction, he then calls the non-material universe 'unreal,' and therefore unimportant and unworthy of his regard. Children, on the other hand, do not discriminate between the material and the non-material in this way. They can tell the difference, of course, but do not feel the need to assign relative value to one over against the other. Much like the Celts of old, children simply accept the existence of both realms-opposite sides of the selfsame coin, you see?»
«Okay, so where does that leave us?» I was beginning to grow a little impatient with all this philosophizing.
«I am coming to that,» said Nettles, in a tone that suggested he was not to be rushed. «Now, then, while the nexus exists as a physical reality-albeit an invisible one, unless marked by a standing stone or a cairn, or whatever – the plexus does not exist in the same way. It is, let us say, more the harmony created by the balance of the two worlds. Are you with me?»
«Barely,» I admitted. «But do go on.»
«Listen carefully. This is the crucial part: when the balance between the two worlds is upset, the harmony-the plexus itself, that is-becomes unstable. Like a strip of woven cloth, it unravels. Do you see?»
I took an impetuous leap. «Unstable plexus equals cosmic chaos and catastrophe-is that what you're driving at?»
«Essentially, yes.» The professor rose and busied himself in a corner of the room. «In the light of this, it therefore becomes a matter of ultimate importance first to discover what has upset the balance, and then to set it right. Otherwise. . .» His voice trailed off as he began rummaging through boxes.
«Otherwise what?» I prompted.
He gazed into the air for a few moments and then said, «I greatly fear the Otherworid will be irretrievably lost to us.»
«But I thought you said this was serious.»
«It is serious,» Professor Nettleton maintained. «I myself can think of nothing more serious that could befall humanity.» He crossed to the other side of the room, opened a closet door and began stuffing things into a faded canvas rucksack.
«Well, how about nuclear holocaust? How about AIDS? How about war and pestilence and famine?»
«Those things are menacing, to be sure,» Nettles allowed, taking up a tube of toothpaste. «But they do not threaten humanity at its very pith and core.»
«I, for one, happen to think the prospect of being blasted to a thimbleful of glowing protons is pretty darn threatening to my pith and core. I can think of one or two others who would back me up on that.»
Nettles waved the observation aside with the toothbrush he was brandishing. «Death is death, Mr. Gillies. It has existed since man was born, and will continue until the end of time. It is, after all, part of life. Disease, pestilence, famine, and war, likewise. They are all the same in that respect-part of human existence.»
«Spoken like a true academic. Here you are, snug in your little cocoon; the real world never touches you. How do you know anything about-«
«Allow me to finish!» he snapped, shaking the toothbrush at me. «You are speaking of something about which you know nothing! Less than nothing»
My head ached and my eyeballs were dry and watery at the same time. I was tired and confused, and not in the mood to get yelled at. «I'm sorry. Go on, I'm listening.»
The professor turned again to the closet and brought out a heavy wool cardigan. «Sometimes I wonder why I bother!»
«Please,» I coaxed. «I mean it. I'll behave.»
He was quiet for a moment, staring at the cardigan. «What difference does a Japanese vase make?» he asked unexpectedly.
«Pardon?»
«Or a Rembrandt painting, Lewis? Or a Tennyson poem-what difference do they make to us? I am asking you for an answer.»
Nuts. The man was utterly nutters. «I don't know,» I shrugged. «Art, beauty-stuff like that. I can't say, exactly.»
Nettles blew out his cheeks and huffed in derision, rolled up the garment and stuffed it into the pack. «If Rembrandt's paintings and Tennyson's poems suddenly ceased to exist, the world would be the poorer, certainly. But there are other paintings, other poems. Correct?»
«Sure.»
«Ahh! But what if beauty itself ceased to exist?» he asked. «What if beauty-the very idea of beauty-ceased to exist?» He puffed out his cheeks. «Why, ten thousand years of human thought and progress would be instantly obliterated. The human race would have lost one of its primary endowments-the ability to see, value, and create beauty. We would descend to the level of the animals.»
«Granted,» I agreed.
«Very well.» He brought Out a pair of long wool socks, which he held up to check for holes. «Apart from pleasure, beauty also kindles imagination, hope, and encouragement. If beauty ceased to exist we would, in a very real sense, cease to exist-for we would no longer be who we are.»
«I'm familiar with the theory,» I put in defensively.
«Good. We will continue.» He folded the socks and shoved them into the pack, brought out another pair, frowned and tossed them back into the drawer. «Now, then, important as the idea of beauty is, the Otherworld is a thousand times more so. And its loss would be that much more devastating.»
Ooops! Sharp turn. Lost me again. «This is the part I'm having trouble with,» I said, breaking in.
«Because you're not using your head, Mr. Gillies!» the professor bellowed. He reached into the closet, brought out a thick-soled walking shoe and pointed it at me. «Think!»
«I am thinking! I'm sorry, but I just don't get it.»
«Then listen carefully,» Nettles said with tired patience. «If you think of the Otherworid as a repository-a place of safe-keeping, a storehouse or treasury-of this world's archetypal imagery.. .» He must have seen from the frown on my face that he was losing me again, because he stopped.
«I'm trying, professor. But I'm a little fuzzy on this archetypal imagery storehouse stuff. It sounds Jungian.»
«Forget Jung,» Nettles admonished, placing the shoe on the desk and turning the whole of his attention on me. I sat up straight and tried to pay attention.
«Around AD 865, an Irish philosopher by the name of Johannes Scorns Erigena proposed a doctrine which conceived of the natural world as a manifestation of God in four separate aspects, or discernments-that is, distinct divisions which are nonetheless contained in the singularity of God.» He raised his eyebrows. «Anyone at home?»
«I'm here,» I muttered. «Barely.»
«Erigena's doctrine recognized God as the sole Creator, Sustainer, and True Source of all that exists-this is the first of God's aspects. Secondly, Erigena recognized a sort of Supernature, a separate, invisible other nature, wherein reside all primordial ideas, forces, and archetypes-the Form of forms,as he called it-from which all earthly or natural forms derived.»
«The Otherworld,» I murmured.
«Precisely,» confirmed the professor with relief. «The meat of the matter,» he continued, «is that, for human beings, the Otherworid performs several crucial functions.
You might say that it informs and instructs our world in certain important lessons, mostly having to do with human existence.»
«It supplies the meaning of life,» I volunteered shakily.
«No,» Professor Nettleton said. He pulled off his glasses, peered through them, and replaced them. «That is a common misunderstanding, however. The Otherworld does not supply the meaning of life. Rather, the Otherworid describes being alive. Life, in all its glory-warts and all, so to speak.
The Otherworld provides meaning by example, by exhibition, by illustration if you will. Do you see the difference?
«Through the Otherworid we learn what it is to be alive, to be human: good and evil, heart-break and ecstasy, victory and defeat, everything. It is all contained in the treasury, you see. The Otherworid is the storehouse of archetypal life imagery-it is the wellspring of all our dreams, you might say.»
«But I thought you said the Othe
rworld exists as an actual place,» I pointed out, returning to an earlier point.
«It does,» he replied, reaching into the closet for the other shoe, «but its existence in actuality is secondary to its existence as a concept, a metaphor, if you like, which informs, enriches, and illuminates our own world.» He peered into the shoe as if looking for elves.
«Really, I'm not stupid,» I insisted. «But I'm struggling here.»
«We see our own world,» Nettles explained patiently, «in large part only by the light cast upon it from the Otherworld.» He placed the shoe next to its mate on the desk, turned, and stared into the closet as if it were the entrance to the Otherworid. «I ask you, Lewis,» he continued abruptly, «where does one first learn loyalty? Or honor? Or any higher value, for that matter?»
«Such as beauty?» I asked, dragging up his previous point.
«Very well,» he agreed, «such as beauty-the beauty of a forest, let us say. Where does one learn to value the beauty of a forest and to revere it?»
«In nature?» I gave the most obvious answer, which was most obviously wrong.
«Not at all. This can easily be proven by the fact that so many among us do not revere the forests at all-do not even see them, in fact. You know the people I am talking about. You have seen them and their works in the world. They are the ones who rape the land, who cut down the forests and despoil the oceans, who oppress the poor and tyrannize the helpless, who live their lives as if nothing lay beyond the horizon of their own limited earth-bound visions.» He paused a moment and recollected. «But I digress. The question before us is this: where does one first learn to see a forest as a thing of beauty, to honor it, to hold it dear for its own sake, to recognize its true value as a forest, and not just see it as a source of timber to be exploited, or a barrier to be hacked down in order to make room for a motorway?»
I knew what answer he wanted, and said it just to make him happy. «The Otherworld?»
«Yes, the Otherworid.»
My brain hurt. «How,» I asked almost desperately, «is this so?»
The professor brought out a wide leather belt and began threading it through the loops of his corduroy trousers. «It is so because the mere presence of the Otherworid kindles in us the spark of higher consciousness, or imagination. It is the stories and tales and visions of the Otherworid-that magical, enchanted land just beyond the walls of the manifest world-which awaken and expand in human beings the very notions of beauty, of reverence, of love and nobility, and all the higher virtues. The Otherworld is the Form of forms, the storehouse, yes? The archetypes reside there, you see.
«A fellow lecturer once asked me, 'How can you see a real forest if you have never seen a fairy forest?' Well? I ask you the same thing.»
Remarkably, this made sense to me. Or perhaps I had parted with my senses altogether. «Because the Otherworld exists, we can see our own world for what it is,» I said, almost panting with the effort.
«And for more than what it is,» Nettles added, buckling the belt. «That is very important. For it is chiefly by virtue of the existence of the Otherworid that we recognize the ultimate value of this one-a value which extends far beyond its literal elements.»
«In the same way as the value of a forest extends beyond the value of the logs it produces?» I suggested hopefully.
«Very good, Lewis.» Nettles seemed pleased. «You're making progress.»
«Yeah, well, couldn't we do that by ourselves? Couldn't we recognize the value of this forest or whatever, whether the Otherworld existed or not? I mean, couldn't we just imagine it all?»
«God alone might. Human beings are not so gifted to create ex nihilo, out of nothing.» I watched, uncomprehending, as the professor began unbuttoning his shirt. «No, human creations must be grounded in something actual, however elusive and subtle.» He raised an admonitory finger. «Be assured, we do not come by this knowledge-this consciousness of higher things-naturally, Mr. Gillies. We must be taught. And the Otherworid is the principal instrument of our instruction.»
He discarded his shirt, withdrew another from the closet, began to put it on. The physique beneath was compact and remarkably fit.
«Fine,» I said, «but what has it to do with this-this cosmic catastrophe you were talking about earlier?»
«I thought that would have been self-evident.» He tucked the dangling shirt-tails into his trousers.
«Not to me it isn't.»
«Dear boy, anything which threatens the Otherworid threatens this world. It is as simple as that.» He took up the backpack and placed it beside the door. Then he retrieved the hiking shoes from his desk and brought them to the chair opposite me. «When the Form of forms becomes corrupted, our world and all that is in it becomes corrupted at the root.»
Good golly, this was tough going. I sucked a deep breath, lowered my head, and slogged on. «All respect, Nettles, but I still don't get it. How-how is the Otherworid threatened? This plexus thing-you said it has become unstable, or is unraveling. What does that mean? What is this all about?»
«In simplest terms,» replied Nettles, stuffing his feet into the shoes, «the Otherworld is leaking through into this one.»
«And this world is leaking through into the Otherworid. That's bad, right?»
«Catastrophic.» Nettles pursed his lips as he laced the right shoe. «A breach has opened between the worlds and anything may stumble through.»
«Anything-like an aurochs? Or a Green Man.. . ?» At last I understood. I felt my stomach tighten. It was true. All of it. True.
«The aurochs, the Green Man,» Nettles echoed gently, «the wolf in Turl Street, and who knows what else?»
«Simon? Did he stumble through?»
«I think it likely, don't you?»
I pondered all he had said, desperately trying to take it all in. But there was too much; I bowed before Nettles' superior intellect and abandoned myself to his judgment. «Well, okay, so what happens now?»
«I think we must have a look at that cairn of yours, Mr. Gillies.»
Another trip to Scotland. Super. On the whole, however, jaunting up to Carnwood Farm seemed a lot more fun than regaling an angry Geoffrey Rawnson with a cockeyed tale about prehistoric oxen and fairy mounds. «Sounds good,» I agreed. «When do we leave?»
«At once. I'm packed.» He indicated the backpack beside the door.
«I'll have to go back to my rooms and collect a few things,»
I said.
«That won't be necessary,» the professor said. «What you have will suffice.» He stepped to his closet and withdrew a spare toothbrush and wash cloth which he stuffed into the pack. «There,» he declared, «we're ready to go.»
Chapter 10
The Serbian
The train from Oxford to Edinburgh left half an hour late, and packed end to end and wall to wall with Oxford United devotees. I have nothing against British Rail-only that they let all the wrong sort of people ride on their trains. I don't suppose it's BR's fault, but it makes travelling by rail so tatty. At the end of four or five hours one would have been hard pressed to illustrate the difference between a second-class coach and a cattlecar. Whoever esteemed the serving of alcohol to football hooligans in close confinement a good idea ought to be forced to endure a six-hour sojourn with the inebriate consequence.
By the time we reached Birmingham, I had pretty much had my fill of empty Skцl lager cans and rousing football songs. «'Ere we go! 'Ere we go! 'Ere we go!» can only divert a body for so long, I find, and then the lyric begins to pall.
«Just once,» I murmured wistfully, «I would like to travel first class. I think I'm ready for that.»
At Birmingham the footballers cleared out, however, and we had the coach to ourselves. I tried to read a newspaper someone had left behind, but the words kept jumping around and I couldn't make sense of what I read. So I gave up and looked out the window at the drab countryside racing by in a dull blur outside. It was as if the focus knob had gone on the fritz and the picture was all screwed up-color drai
ned away and image reeling by recklessly. A world sliding sideways out of control.
This is how it begins, I thought, and remembered Simon's impassioned harangue in the car the night before he vanished. Perhaps he was more sensitive than I gave him credit for. He felt it-felt the distress in his soul. I didn't, not then at any rate. But I was beginning to feel something: if not the distress, then fear.
I closed my eyes on such uncomfortable thoughts and went to sleep.
In due course, the train arrived in Edinburgh. We retrieved our luggage and stepped onto the platform. It was cold. The air smelled of diesel oil and Casey Jones' hamburgers.
We tramped up the stairs to the shopping precinct above Waverly Station platform and jostled our way through throngs of cheerless shoppers. I noticed the spark and glitter of Christmas decorations in the shops and reflected that I would have to get some cards sent out before the rush. This time of year it could take three weeks for a holiday greeting to reach the States.
Last Christmas Simon had invited me home with him, but then cancelled at the last minute because Aunt Tootie had come down with the ague and his sister and her fiancй had gone to Ibiza and his mother had volunteered to produce the village pantomime and the staff had been given the hols off and the whole familial frolic had gone quite sour. So I ended up spending a rainy Christmas alone in my room. The thought made me sad.
Nettles hailed us a taxi. Edinburgh castle, cold and forbidding on its high rock, loomed over us, eerily lit against the dark night sky. We piled into the taxi and the professor gave the driver the address of a guest house he knew.
«Inexpensive, but clean. And the food is good. You'll like it,» he promised.
I didn't care if the place was filthy, cost a fortune, and the food was served by six-foot tall cockroaches. I just didn't care. I was tired and sore oppressed by all the vexing thoughts Nettles had put into my head. All I wanted was to crawl into bed and forget everything.
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