Copyright © 2018 Marina de Nadous
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
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ISBN 978 1780887 647
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Dedicated to Little Arthur
Prologue
Part One Quasi Draft
Questions
Qualify
Quantity
Quintet
Part Two Underway
Unfamiliar
Unwrap
Utility
Unify
Part Three Edge Away
Entertain
Elevate
Embrace
Elect
Part Four Sailing
Swell
Still up?
Sensible
Shells
Part Five Toe the Line
Tremor
Tomorrow
Tracing
Tell Tale
Treasure {Pieces of Eight}
HOW BLESSED ARE WE
Oh, playful Sprite of the Silver Fern,
My Smiling Minstrel, Prince of Elves,
How blessed are we to sail upon this Celestial Sea,
In thought and deed and desire,
Such rare and joyful harmony.
Should we be afraid to travel, just ourselves,
To Heavenly Realms where we can be free?
Deep in embrace, all of you, and all of me,
Softly——Gently——Quietly——————
Dipping the crest of each wave as it rolls,
Pure Spirit alive, and lighting our way,
Side by side with our swords
Beside Angels we’ll stand
To alight upon shores of a beloved, known Land,
Let us pray——
Prologue
Monday 5th October 2009
“Come away with me this morning, my Lady. I have the car outside—there’s somewhere I want to take you.”
I don’t argue. We tiptoe past the snoring household; holding hands fondly as we run outside. It is raining hard——again. “Don’t ask any questions. I need to be silent right now.” I don’t say a word and watch with interest as we drive away from the cul-de-sac, heading west. We negotiate the new roundabout and cross the causeway; the tide is on the turn and our headlamps startle the wet sand. And now we are passing The Giant Cow and the new shopping complex, deserted at this hour.
Oh——why is my Swallow Man turning down Kes Street? Is he taking me to the property next to Jacintha and Cory’s house? Dawn is just breaking. We park on the street and walk up the drive of number 74, bold as brass. “I know you are thinking of renting this property and I also know it to be empty,” my Lover explains at last. “I have made us a cosy shelter to christen the place—come and see.” We brush past the laden grapefruit trees; the rain sounds so loud under their heavy branches. Sliding by a woodshed we arrive in the back garden. I notice grass seed has been scattered. Jacintha told me the previous tenants were cat breeders; did the animals damage the lawn? The garden is a good size and the view? ——Well——it is spectacular. One of the region’s bays lies directly beneath us. “Look, there’s Bernard’s house, straight across the water.” I point to the opposite shore, to the house we lived in when we first arrived in New Zealand, and then I am led into the pergola perched above the heavenly outlook.
“What is this?” Lord Swallow is beaming. He has made a shelter of Punga and Bracken——a perfect lover’s nest beneath the pergola. The opening faces the water. “Come to me, my Lady. I want to undress you slowly, here, outside. I think we need something different today——an adventure on land. The Boat will wait for us, in fact I suggested to Ivan that he sail her round to Tat Island——it’s close by. We are completely hidden, but we should see the Boat’s sails when she arrives. I intend making passionate love with you on dry land this morning.”
I am back home now. I smile, wrapping my exciting morning around myself——glad of the comfortable sofa and my little dog keeping my toes warm under the bedding. We have pillows and duvets on both sofas. We like to curl up with our books——and my writing. The children especially like to sit at opposite ends to their parents. “That’s your sofa, Ma——and that’s Daddy’s.” Rinky The Minx often gives me a foot massage while I read to her. We both enjoy that. We are reading a favourite book at the moment: ‘A Traveller in Time’ by Alison Uttley. I loved the book as a child and Rinky loves it too. As I re-read the story I see that my own life has a similar storyline——for I too step into a parallel life that runs happily alongside my own, although the time I share with my Lover is the same, thank goodness——not centuries apart. The girl in the story falls in love with a ghost——an Elizabethan boy she cannot marry. “It’s very hard to love someone you can never be with,” I said as I closed the book. We finished the story last night.
Tuesday 6th October 2009
I have been writing since five-thirty this morning. In fact, I have been writing since August 2006. I open the blinds beside me——the sky shows patches of blue through the leaves of a luscious Puka Tree in the neighbours’ garden. Relief——the wet weather is over. It is unusual to have continuous wet days in New Zealand, unlike our British homeland where endless rainy days are common. The rivers are high and the land is water-logged. The sound of morning traffic competes with bird song in our quiet cul-de-sac where Tui birds challenge Bellbirds in a cheeky contest.
We live in a tiny cabin on the edge of a sprawling, coastal town. We moved in two years ago, having left our Mountain Eyrie after financial and other strain. Would I turn back the clock? Would I alter the life-changing events of the past four years? No. The answer is quick to hold up its hand and claim the victory, although others might disagree. The clock ticks and I listen for the sound of waking children.
The Go-Getter is unwell——again——a throat and ear infection this time. I should get up and clean the house. My best friend arrives from England tomorrow. J.J is coming to live with us for a while, joining us on the other side of the world in our surprising, Kiwi reincarnation. Perhaps she might help clear the debris of our lives. My husband shakes his head, unable to find reason in his wife’s ongoing claim that she has supped from the Holy Grail——that all is well and they are blessed. Should I remove the Copper Band? Should I close the lid on the story? Does my claim for destiny-led adventure lie dead and trampled upon the shores of life? Have I been a fool——walking towards The Light, no matter what?
A rocky future lies ahead; disturbing and exciting. Perhaps my housewife’s adventure offers the ultimate escape from an increasingly tyrannical husband. I cannot alter my status. I have a foot firmly anchored in both Heaven and on Earth——and I am unable to remove one to stand unbalanced. Others’ demands lie contrary to my truth. Perhaps the story will continue. Perhaps t
he Boat will sail on without me. My time as crew may be over. I do not know.
Looking back, I recall those days we decided to leap into the unknown——the adventurous leap that has changed our lives forever. Let me take you there. Be patient with the writer; she is a new scribe. Three years ago she was a novice——a novice in the realms of coherent story writing, let alone passionate, spiritual liaison. The script improves with the ensuing months, leading the story through unimagined veils. The novice realizes her prophetic maturity with open honesty as the pages turn, but she is prepared to plead foolish and guilty if needs be.
Part One Quasi Draft
The Craftsman pauses in his work. Something is stirring; something new, something expected. He lays down his tools, interested. Ah, it is a destiny event; the beginning of a happening. He fills a pipe and turns his attention to the scene below. In a school building, gazing out of a window stands a woman——lovely. He watches her carefully, catching her drifting thoughts. Their content draws a soft smile to his lips. “At last”, he murmurs.
As he watches, something else vies for his attention——someone else. Yes, there; in a small and dusty flat——a young man——a teacher on the far side of the world struggles with boxes and furniture. What is he doing? Moving house? Hmm——it is the final cleanout of a year relationship that ended recently in unhappy parting, leaving its residue of guilt and stress. Still, The Craftsman looks more intently, there is something else that catches his attention; what is it? A readiness and willingness——like the woman’s. A flying tailed, golden impression in the sky above the man’s head is making him look up. What can it be? A child’s sun-streamer? Perhaps he imagined it.
The Craftsman loves the countenance he knows, enjoying the intrigue and inward question as the fellow wonders what he is seeing. He leans back, eyes closing, deep thought wrinkling his brow. Like a simmering cauldron The Craftsman remains poised for some time——in reflection——until his eyes open with a merry twinkle. He takes a long draw on his pipe and then, in a slow, creative exhale he breathes smoke into the stillness of the air. The plume boils and spins, twisting and writhing until slowly, incredibly, begins to take form. The wispy shape grows increasingly solid——unmistakably a vessel of some kind.
The smoke turns slowly before The Craftsman’s inspection. He likes the way it moves in the breeze, retaining its shape yet moving with the tiny air currents. It is hardly there; easily missed unless you are intuitively aware. It has to begin like this——in veiled potential and organic unfolding. This is the beginning of an epic tale; a mystical Quest heralding a new form; a challenge to the usual, accepted codes and regulations. It must be guided with the utmost care and attention. But for now he can relax and enjoy his creativity, his pipe and his happy mirth.
So——these two, innocent and naïve——well, he at least——she, he senses is more keenly tuned to these stirrings. Mmm. The Craftsman reaches for his workbook and, while watching with interest their to-ings and froings, begins to draw. A Boat takes form on his page; the first draft that of the smoky shape above his head. Then, with growing enthusiasm draft after draft follow—each similar but more pronounced in one detail or another——fitted and built to withstand the harsh, earthly conditions that face her voyaging. Air and water are synchronized beautifully, the elements of fire and earth to follow later in The Quest.
Each drawing shows a Boat that is lean and fast, responsive but also warm and homely. She is a craft of elegance; a vessel built for movement and manoeuvrability with breath-taking speed and fine sensitivity. And a light, oh so light helm; the smallest breath of wind enough to send her scudding. Clear, clean lines too and a knife-edge keel—Wave Slicer, Watery Dancer, long and deep. And shapely in curve and line; full-bellied sails to sense the air and use the winds to their full potential, harnessing the driving power of each gust.
He sees how the two he has watched are woven into her form. The length and line are sleek and quick——purposeful——low to the water, swift and elegant; a dancer. This is he, his graceful bearing showing through.
And she——the Craftsman notes her in the cut of the sails and lightness of the hull; her lovely, upright faith and lofty idealism lending such grace and drive to the sweep of the sails that he is moved by the vessel’s beauty, by her perfect harmony. There are still some adjustments to be made but the design is there. The Boat is strong, sturdy and receptive——light at the helm and deep enough to carry the fullness of the spectacular spread of sails that would catch even a fleeting waft; a worthy craft indeed. The Craftsman nods——she will need to be.
He bends to his work, enjoying the chase; the pursuit of form. He adjusts a few details and there, another correcting mark and she is complete, the design on paper. If these two were aware of their future voyage——well——he decides it is far better they remain oblivious. The Quest is a long way into the future. For now he will concentrate on the beginning.
Chapter 1 Question
Glancing through a landing window the afternoon sun bathes cupboards and highlights dusty shelves; shelves heavy with books and the paraphernalia of fifteen years worth of small business building. I view them objectively. They represent home enterprise, spilling into family domesticity; enterprise that provides a barrier against constant overdraft and stimulates my ever-seeking mind, providing a level of satisfaction. But my small-time career consumes precious time, only partially delivering the longed for dreams of personal happiness and adventure. Perhaps my work provides distraction. Do I need distracting? I sigh——children’s toys escape from the open bathroom door——The Laird of the household stands before the lavatory; a conversation about the direction of our future in mid flow, along with nature’s call.
The landing window in this school building faces the North Downs in the south of England. It offers an exciting view——one of a mysterious yet attainable world with steep hillsides and ancient trees. I like it. Every time I walk past something has changed. Sometimes it is swathed in mist, at other times the seasonal colours stop me dead in my tracks; it could almost be a mirror——a mirror of my——what? My soul? Whatever it is, I am fortunate to have it right here on my home landing. Thinking back, this was the very window which made me realize we had to move. That was four years ago. The moment is clear in my mind. We had thought that, ’no’, we wouldn’t take such a dangerous step; we would stay put in the safe environment of the Monastery School in Sussex that had been home for ten years, when out of the blue this window popped into my mind and I knew that we would take the opportunity before us. We had visited the school and had a tour of this building——the Sixth Form House advertising for a Housemaster; the job commencing in September 2001. I remember lingering on the stairs, looking up at the window in question.
Four successful years later, a host of new friends and exciting enterprises established we are on the hunt again. The Laird is unhappy——the demands of the house-mastering role in this artistic and unruly school are wearing him down, as well as two female staff making his job difficult and his ambitions unlikely. The rest of the family would rather not move. The children are happy and settled and my Kindergarten initiative is taking off with unexpected success and community bloom, nurturing the entrepreneur in me, as well as stimulating the spiritual seeking of my soul. Yes, the circumstances would have to be very enticing to make me give up my present world——and my window.
* * * * * * *
“So, our family life is okay on many levels isn’t it?” We agree that it is. The businesses are ticking along nicely, the children are secure and achieving and we have our family and friends close at hand. “It’s just that I can’t take the demands of the job any more,” my hard-working husband admits. A disturbing bout of depression having knocked his confidence, he is ready for a change. We have always aimed high; high and alternative, ever hunting for new ways to ‘be’. Our dreams of owning our own school or retreat centre have dwindled as the exhausting rounds of child-care and earning a living have taken over our
lives. We watch our friends gaining in personal wealth and achievement, but 17 years on we have scaled few rungs of the independence ladder.
Continuing our conversation I am aware of a restless sense of something ‘other’. Why do I taste an unknown ingredient, an acknowledgement that something is missing? I honestly cannot say. It disturbs me, hovering unspoken and unearthed at the edges of my mind. My husband and I have been together since our late teens/early twenties. Life has had its ups and downs. We have had variety, challenge, three moves and three beautiful children, including a host of dogs and small pets. Our social life is buzzing, our extended family generous and attentive at all times, our plans and interests alive and exciting. But still————
Our togetherness is one of stoic comradeship and fondness, through thick and thin, devoted and hard-working. We are best in a crowd, going out to others. This is when we are alive. But when we are on our own——well——where is the——the emotional, private passion?
I know now——now that the adventure has begun——I know this is what we are seeking. In early December my husband’s depression prompts him to scan the Internet for a new teaching position. And he finds it; the perfect job in bold print, jumping out of the screen in a tempting and unexpected quarter. A teaching post in North Island, New Zealand; somewhere we have vaguely dreamt about. Could we really disrupt our lives to that extent? We are tentatively excited, reaching for an old school atlas and promptly inviting a fellow teaching colleague to join us for tea. Chris is a Kiwi sports teacher who has lived in the U.K for five years. He offers a wealth of information about his beloved homeland, excited that we should be considering such a move.
Well, we play with the dream for a week or two; we speak to an English family who moved to the Southern Hemisphere a few years ago and we do the sums——could we afford to live? Could we really buy a property with land? {Something we have always wanted but will never achieve in this expensive country.} Everything appears to add up. Every question is answered with a big ‘YES’. Money would be tight; I would have to work part-time but that’s nothing new. The final, most important consideration is schooling for our three children, coupled with the possibility of joining a like-minded community.
The Celestial Sea Page 1