Endless Time

by Frances Burke

  It wasn’t that he wanted her to believe so much as he needed the reassurance that she would not grow dependent on continual regressions for kicks. Valerie could do with a strong personal philosophy. She didn’t need to play games with her psyche and end up disappointed, and worse off than before she began.

  For a moment he grasped an inward vision of what his own life could be, if it were all real. A chance to do things over again, to make good the mistakes – and the knowledge that everything he thought and said and did affected his own future lives. It’d certainly make him raise his game! And if everyone else ‘knew’ about karma, the pay-back system, they’d certainly lead better lives. People’s attitudes would be revolutionized overnight. The world could enter an era of tranquility previously undreamed of. It could be an age of miracles!

  Valerie moved impatiently and, with a sigh, he relinquished the dream and came back to reality.

  Ten minutes later, with her body tightly bound to the recliner, Valerie had returned to the past.

  The man huddled over his rigidly clasped hands, sobbing bitterly. His shoulders heaved and he was trying to speak, but the words came out oddly broke and disjointed.

  ‘I did not mean… I could not… Oh, God above, hear me! I must have been mad…’ Again he broke off into an unintelligible mumble. Then a terrible groan came from him. Raising his puffy face he appeared to stare in horror at some visitation only he could see.

  ‘Forgive me! I tried to fight it, but the compulsion was too strong. I was driven by fury. I was not responsible. I could not stop myself.’ He cringed, protecting his ravaged face with his hands.

  It could have been a caricature of terror, but to the two watchers the scene conveyed a disturbing reality. The man had been reduced to a wreck, a cowering creature filled with remorse and fear of the consequences of his behavior.

  ‘Looks as if he killed the other one,’ muttered Phil.

  Tom only nodded. How could Valerie possibly put over an act like this, so quickly, so convincingly? Foam flecked her lips and her skin had taken on a grayish tone.

  ‘There is no redemption,’ moaned the tormented being now thrashing about in the recliner, held only by the knotted rope. ‘They will come for me and confine me in one of my own cells. I deserve no better. But I cannot bear the thought. Death would be preferable.’

  Oh, oh, thought Tom. Here we go again.

  With a feeling of inevitability he watched the man dive into a pocket and produce an imaginary something, holding it to his head. His eyes, beneath closed lids, seemed ready to come right out of their sockets as he faced some monster of his own creation.

  ‘We shall meet in hell!’ he screamed, and slumped down in his bonds.

  *

  Tom knew it was very late, probably close to dawn. Too exhausted to bother raising his wrist he was content to take a guess. The fire had burned down to embers, although it was still warm in the apartment, and he’d sunk so far into his chair that he looked like a hibernating bear, wrapped in his warmest pullover and fleecy-lined boots.

  Phil slumped in the opposite seat, half asleep. Having seen Valerie home, they’d returned to Tom’s place for supper. Since then they’d been at it for hours, arguing, cajoling, and pleading for each other’s understanding. And where had it got them, Tom wondered? He yawned and pulled himself up to a sitting position.

  ‘Let’s close down, Phil. I’m too whacked to think any more. Do you want to spend what’s left of the night on the couch?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Phil, too, yawned. ‘That bloody animal won’t try to get in with me, will he?’

  ‘He wouldn’t lower himself.’

  Habbakuk, curled tight like an overgrown snail on the hearthrug, opened a golden eye and stared contemptuously at Phil.

  Tom laughed.’ My familiar. I’ll bet he’s more psychically aware than any; of us. Do you suppose animals and humans are karmically linked?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it. But I don’t see why not. Seriously, Tom, this pattern that’s emerging shows an alarming tendency on Valerie’s part. When life gets too difficult to handle she simply opts out.’ He looked at Tom from the corners of his eyes. ‘Now, since you appear to be a part of the cycle…’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud! We’ve been over this so many times and I still say you’re basing your conclusions on too little evidence and a whole lot of wishful thinking. My dreams are my own, not Valerie’s. I involved myself.’ Tom pulled himself up, aware that he was becoming far too impassioned. ‘The suicide pattern can scarcely be called a pattern after just two lifetimes.’

  ‘What about the Friday dawn episode?’

  ‘We’re not even sure that it was a genuine attempt.’

  Phil snorted. ‘Valerie was reacting to the pressure you were bringing on her. She might have told you she wanted this, but at a deeper level she didn’t mean it. You were making her dig into forbidden areas – that is, areas she had made forbidden. Her fear was so great she simply decided to opt out rather than face it.’

  ‘That’s entirely possibly. I had thought of it, and it’s why I insisted that Valerie herself should make the decision whether to go on. Unlike you, I believe she wants and needs to do this, both consciously and at every other level.’

  ‘Well, there you are. You have the suicide sequences. We could go on having Valerie regress through any number of lives, and I’m betting that in the great majority she’d follow the same pattern.’

  Tom appeared to be sunk in thought. He’d been listening with a part of his attention; but the remainder was occupied with an astonishing realization. Without any thunderclap, no roll of drums or heavenly choir, he’d come to a truly momentous point in his life. Emotionally he had just stepped across a line; or a better description would be that he’d passed through a curtain he’d never known was there. One moment he was the old Tom Levy, bristling with prejudices and fears, most of which he’d carried as so much extra baggage since childhood; then, with the one step, he’d left his old self behind and entered a new phase.

  Tom wanted to know that he had lived before. His mind seemed to be crowded with voices from the past, all begging for a hearing. He wanted the promise inherent in the law of balance. He wanted to know that life and death were momentary passages in a continuum, that he was as important to the rhythm of the universe as any and every other part of it. With every particle of the mind and body and soul and intellect that was Tom Levy, he wanted to believe. Great Lord of Moses and all the Prophets, he wanted it to be so!

  He felt tears come to his eyes. The intensity of his longing was a pain in his chest, spreading and filling the cavity, pressing on his lungs so that he found it hard to breathe. His muscles tensed, and he felt as if he was straining against the confines of his body. A part of him soared above the pain, the constriction, freewheeling like a bird released from a cage, delighting in the sunshine it had never thought to see again.

  Then, as suddenly as it came, the exaltation and the pain faded. The longing stayed with him; but the wave of passionate feeling had slowed and brought him back to his own familiar shore. It didn’t dump him, just deposited him gently on the beach, and receded. Tom felt groggy.

  When he finally focused back on his friend, his expression must have shown that he’d missed something vital.

  Phil threw up his hands. ‘Christ, you’re a stubborn bastard! I might as well talk to your wretched cat. I get about as much response.’ He hauled himself out of his chair and picked up his coat.

  Tom shot up after him, detaining him with both hands on his shoulders. He said in a voice that shook with intensity, ‘Phil, relax. I’m not rubbishing you or your theories. In fact, I’m far more impressed by them than I’ve let you see. No doubt it’s been my stupid pride getting in the way.’

  Phil didn’t answer.

  Tom’s smile was rueful. ‘Please, try to understand. If I take on this credo it means challenging all my previous notions of how the universe is structured. If I put those aside, I put aside everythi
ng I’ve ever believed in. I need time.’

  Phil wouldn’t give way. His expression was equally rueful. ‘It’s not me you have to ask for time. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling it’s running out fast, for all of us.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Antony left the stables and took a roundabout route to the House, through the herb gardens and his grandmother’s prized wilderness of barely tended shrubs, emerging at the eastern-most end of the Manor. He stood and contemplated the tower. A wind blew up from the coast, shredding itself against the bits of fallen masonry, tugging at the weeds that grew in the cracks where mortar had fallen out. It was a scene of utter desolation, gray sky, gray light, gray world. Depression settled on him more firmly.

  Christmas had gone by with dancing and festivity, and a house full of guests. He had enjoyed it all; but always in the background was his worry over the political situation. Bonaparte bestrode Europe, as invincible as ever. His occupying armies spread across the map like the tentacles of a sea-monster. It seemed to Antony there was but one way to break its grip, to cut off its head.

  He and Caro were badly at odds with one another. Why could she not understand? He did not believe her to be unmoved by the country’s plight, and yet she refused to discuss a means of dispatching the greatest tyrant the world had seen since the Roman Emperors. Time was running out for England. Unless she could find some allies, the noose that Bonaparte was drawing about her would end in strangling her commerce, and without trade she would die. Bernadotte still struggled to withstand pressure from France, but his little kingdom could so easily be trodden under. And the Tsar, that wily fox, would not commit himself. He waited to see which choice would be more advantageous – and meanwhile England starved.

  If Bonaparte were dead, his empire would crumble. There was no one to take his place. Of course it would not be easy to reach him; but Caro’s special knowledge could help so much. Why, why would she not help? It was nonsense to speak of historical integrity, to insist that events must not be tampered with. What was that to him? England stood in desperate need, and she quibbled about ‘history’.

  His mouth tight with frustration, he turned away from the dismal ruin and looked out over the acres of field and wood, the soft hills and distant rugged line of coast that he loved so much. To him it represented all that was best in his country. It was to be fought for and preserved for his children and his children’s children, as was England herself. He had to make Caro see that it all stood in jeopardy.

  He stood braced against the wind, angry enough to wring Caro’s neck, figuratively. Then, without warning, he was hit with a notion that blew his anger into oblivion. He felt stunned with the enormity of it. But however reluctantly, he let it take hold. What if Caro were not Karen Courtney, a woman from the future? What if her tale was one huge, unwitting fraud?

  Well enough for her say quite definitely that Bonaparte would be defeated in certain year. Possibly he would. Who, at this point in time, could refute it? Of course, Caro believed implicitly that everything she said was truth. She was no conscious deceiver. But where was her proof? Her forecasts, unfortunately, still lay in the future. And the more he considered her personal concept of natural universal law, the less comfortable he was with it. He wanted to believe, God knew how much! To know that death was but a doorway into life – that he was a minute part of a continuum, along with every other living thing, a dot in the Creator’s pattern, and integral to that pattern. But there was this vein of skepticism in him that would not let him wholeheartedly embrace such a theory. Karma, reincarnation, future lives. No, he could not.

  He was tired. Looking about, he found a riven block of stone to lean on. His thoughts turned inward and he no longer saw the vista unrolled before him. Although brief, the inward battle was the cruelest he had ever fought, and it was unfairly weighted on one side by fatigue and worry, and an extreme sense of responsibility that was too much a part of his nature to be put aside.

  Finally he straightened up, his decision made. He’d managed to pigeonhole the Jenny/Caro situation as some kind of convenient, one-time miracle. Put simply, he had lost his love and found her again. Miracles were not open to interpretation. He could accept that. But as for Caro’s ‘future’ existence, it had to be a delusion. He adored her, mad or sane, and would protect her with his life; but the more he pondered her story of time travel and her startling predictions, the more unlikely they appeared to be.

  His first joyous acceptance of all she claimed and believed, having once begun to wane, now formed itself into a small, hard, unresilient core of common sense. Theory and fantasy had no part in the present desperate struggle for survival. Sadly, he put aside the part of him that wanted his wife to be what she said she was, accepting that she would not help him because she could not.

  He re-entered the house through the window of his book room just as Karen burst in, looking quite distraught.

  ‘Antony, you must help Charles. I think he is on the brink of breaking down.’ She held out her hands and he took them in his, drawing her close and saying in a comforting tone, ‘Tell me, and I will do what I can.’

  The tale came tumbling out, at first haphazardly and then with more coherence as Karen regained her poise. It appeared that Amanda had finally told Charles she could not marry him, and he’d taken it very badly indeed.

  ‘So, she has given him his conge. I am sorry for it.’ He truly meant it. Charles’ bleak personal life had always troubled him. But although he’d done what he could for his friend, some situations could never be overcome. He admired Charles for continuing to support his widowed mother and the clutch of stepbrothers and sisters still too young to go out into the world; he appreciated him as a hard-working secretary; and he trusted and liked him as a man. But none of these things worked in Charles’ favor when it came to taking a wife.

  Karen shook her head at him. He wanted to kiss her worried expression away and reassure her, but she wouldn’t let him.

  ‘You don’t understand, do you? He’s really desperate. He loves Amanda with such intensity. I don’t think he believed her when she told him months ago that it was hopeless. She tried to warn him, but he stopped up his ears and went on dreaming. Now, he’s had to face the truth. She has told him she loves Oliver Stamford and will marry him. Charles is almost demented.’

  He drew Karen over to the sofa and made her sit down with him. ‘Let me understand this. Amanda maintained the connection, knowing Charles’ feeling for her?’

  ‘She is my friend. She couldn’t help meeting him in our house when she came to visit me. Besides, she is very fond of Charles. If Amanda has a fault, it is her inability to hurt people. She’s only done it now because there is no other way.’

  ‘This is a sorry tale.’ His concern grew as he contemplated the effect of this crushing blow on a nature such as Charles’. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s disappeared. I saw him rush out of the house towards the stables. Amanda is in her room, packing to go back to London. I couldn’t persuade her to stay. Oh, Antony, I am so unhappy for them both.’

  His immediate response was to gather her to him, resting her head on his shoulder and stroking the fiery hair he loved to touch. ‘I will seek out Charles and see what may be done. He thought for a moment, then added, ‘Amanda is aware of Charles’ coming preferment, is she not?’

  ‘Of course. But money isn’t the issue. She truly loves Oliver Stamford, and is merely fond of Charles.’ Karen detached herself from his hold and got up. ‘I should go back to Amanda. She’s heartbroken at the damage she has done. Do find Charles and see what you can do to comfort him.’

  *

  Gloom settled over the Manor, muffling the senses so that it seemed to Antony everyone spoke more softly and guarded their expressions. Caro, upset for Charles, and rebuffed by him, spent hours locked in her studio, using her painting as an outlet.

  Charles had no way of discharging the molten fury that ate at him. For he was angry, Antony could see that.
All his hurt had been transformed into bitterness against the fate that had come upon him through no fault of his own. Nothing served to cheer him, not even Chloe’s wholehearted attempts to drag him into her games.

  Declining escort, Amanda had left that same morning of the upset. A week later, both Antony and Charles followed to London, ostensibly on business matters. In fact, Antony had promised his Caro to deliver her warning to Spencer Percival on his coming assassination in the Houses of Parliament that May. Although Antony no longer placed any credence in her forecasts, he could not tell her so; also, it suited him to remove Charles’ blighting presence from the Manor. Perhaps a few days in town would improve his mood. He was unlikely to meet with Amanda, as they did not normally move in the same circles, and their stricken relationship was not common knowledge.

  Antony’s own mood was not improved by a visit from Sybilla. She came to Rothmoor House alone and at night, and took him unawares as he was working in his book room. Angrily he surveyed her charming figure outlined in the doorway, and wondered where she had the money from to array herself in such splendor. Her gown was wine-colored satin, extremely décolleté, and the neckline and sleeves sewn with garnets. Her very white skin glowed in the candlelight, and her mouth was an invitation as she swept in.

  ‘Pray be seated, Sybilla.’

  She laughed at his chilliness and took her time choosing a chair before subsiding gracefully into it with a swirl of satin skirts.

  ‘I fear you are not pleased to see me, dear Antony,’ she began in a honeyed voice.

  Antony forced back the words he’d have liked to utter and said instead, ‘I have no liking for your games, Sybilla. Be plain, I beg you.’

  ‘Why, I play no game. ‘Tis simply that I wished to see you again, to explain what you were too enraged to hear the last time we met.’