by Ky Lehman
“It depends on the typical lifespan of the physical body they inhabit at the time they come to Earth. During our first lifetime, the expected lifespan of a human being was three score and ten, meaning seventy years. So, based on that, Mike has lived nearly thirty lifetimes.”
THIRTY! Oh God, that can’t be good...
Mum’s dismayed look confirms that it isn’t, and seeing that I’m not fully understanding the magnitude of what she is trying to say, she despairingly sighs and adds, “As an Archangel, Mike was at the peak of evolution and a lifetime of seventy years wouldn’t have set him back far at all. But two thousand years and counting? That is something else entirely. And, when this long life of his finally comes to an end, his soul will regress back thirty lifetimes and he will have to start again from that point,” she says plainly, sounding more like her twin sister that herself.
“But, he will still be human? Right?” I ask, pleading.
“It all depends on the individual, so it’s hard to say what stage he’ll find himself at.”
“Stage?”
“Preceding human is animal. Or it might be a stage or two before.”
“What? Like an insect? A plant?”
“Maybe,” she sorrowfully answers, hanging her head.
“Oh, God…” I gag and retch, trying to dispel the guilt, the sadness, the enormity of his sacrifice for someone…like me. “Why would he do it? Why? Oh, God, I can’t take it…I can’t take it…” I mutter hysterically.
She holds me, strokes my hair and explains, “Archangels don’t feel time the way humans do. Two thousand years to them is just a blip in their eternity.” She guides my tear soaked face up to look at hers. “Love comes with the risk of heartache, but avoiding love, well, that guarantees it.”
I close my eyes, feeling underserving of his love, of hers.
“Open your eyes,” she gently commands. I reluctantly obey. “I have my own biased answer as to why Mike made that choice,” she says with a mothers knowing smile, “but the only people who truly knew what was driving his decision at the time were Joshua and their uncle, Ari.”
Chapter 15
Mum closes the door to the guest house and with her neatly packed luggage and her bedraggled daughter in tow, we silently walk up the cobbled path towards the Castle.
With the afternoon sun beating down from above and the heavy load Mum has to drag along behind her, it takes us a lot longer than usual to reach the fork in the path. She stops and expectantly turns towards me, her raised eyebrows asking if I will be staying on path leading to the Castle’s South entrance or if I’ll be heading left towards the Orchard.
Making any unexpected decisions, even one as small as this, is asking too much of my current capabilities. I stand and stare at my red ballet flats hoping that they’ll choose for me.
It seems that they won’t work without the scarecrow, the tin man, the lion and the little scruffy dog. “Ren. Which way do you want to go?” Mum gently prompts, lifting my chin with her free hand.
All I want to do is follow. “I thought we were going to the Castle,” I murmur.
“I am,” she says. “But, are you?”
I nod yes. No more unforeseen turns, at least for now.
As I miserably tread behind Mum, each sorry step putting the Orchard further behind me, I realise that I am feeling even more unsettled because it is always one of the first places I visit on the day of my arrival. The trees with their rosy red, green and golden orbs call to me in Nanna’s voice, and as I stop and longingly look back at them, my favourite narrator starts to tell the story behind the fairy-tale images dancing through my head.
Mum’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “It might help cheer you up,” she suggests as the pull grows stronger.
Happily lost amongst the rows of bittersweet sanctuary where I hide and he finds me, I have no doubt that it will, but I’m feeling way too sorry for myself: sorry for Mike, sorry for Mum, Nanna, Georgie Pa, the list goes on. With all of the misery I have caused those I love, what right do I have to happiness, even if it is just a fairy tale?
“Maybe later,” I say as I determinedly pivot to the right, putting the Castle back in my sights.
“OK,” Mum assents with a sigh.
As she turns to make way, I catch another glimpse of her tired face. Quickly stepping up the pace so I am walking beside her, I attempt to lighten my tone and ask, “Can I carry your suitcase for you?”
“No, thanks, but it’ll help if you hold this,” she says offering me her hand.
She shines that smile that fills me with instant reassurance: the one that says I know everything there is to know about you, but I’m still here and proud to be. With wet eyes, I smile back, hoping she’ll see in my adoring look how much I love her too.
A few quiet minutes later, we make it to the end of the path and the Castle’s South entrance. Mum uses her key to unlock the door and steps inside, but for some weird reason, I can’t bring myself to follow her in.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“It’s silly, I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But I want to go in the way I always do when I first get here. Through the front door.”
“Your gut has spoken. And if it’s telling you to go the long way, then go,” she says, lightly nudging me with her elbow. “I’ll see you upstairs in a bit.”
She is right. My gut has spoken. And, thanks to past experience, I know better than to ignore it. “Well, OK then. I’ll see you soon,” I say as I turn on my heel and step away from the door, instantly feeling more at ease.
I continue down the pebble path, around the inside curve of the high stone castle wall, looking up at the huge blocks of stone in every earthly colour imaginable unsystematically stacked one on top of the other: from the blackest granite to the snowiest quartz and all of the shades in-between that make up this commanding structure capable of both protection and containment, and of privacy and isolation.
My attention is suddenly averted as the heady smell of the lavender bushes bordering the path fades and is replaced by jasmine: it’s exotic, otherworldly scent entices my gaze to follow its climb up the lattice wall onto the canopy overhead, and my feet soon follow. As I walk under thousands of its delicate white bells, their petals made even brighter by its blanketing tapestry of dark green leaves and intertwining vines, it’s fragrant shelter soon comes to an end as carefully planted rose bushes flanking me on either side escort me back out into the sunshine, their rich colours and distinct scents wavering, heightening and paling with each forward step I take: from red’s passion to orange’s desire, softening into warm yellows and the gentle love of pink; onto varying man-made shades of blue through to the natural subtly of mauve, and as I turn the corner, I once again find myself surrounded by the lightness of white: leafy, manicured balls covered with cloudlike baubles of velvet petals inviting me up to the door that is always open.
I climb the black marble steps and stand before the enormous arched oak front door for the thirteenth time. I think of how, from its sheer size alone, anyone opening it for the first time would think they would need two hands to turn the chunky iron handle and all of their weight to push it open.
Clearly remembering the last time I stood at this entrance as the crusader of the past I believed myself to be, I feel compelled to knock in a different way than I did then. With my right hand, I simply knock three times – once for who I was, once for who I am now, and once for who I want to be – and as I bring my closed hand back to my side, the imposing door weightlessly swings open, welcoming me inside.
Suddenly light and ecstatic to be back, I stride over the threshold into the grand sandstone foyer with its high walls and sturdy floors cascading ripples of ancient cream, rust and tan, to be, once again, stopped and humbled by the magnificently large chandelier raining droplets of eons-old amber hanging overhead. As I stare up at it and past it, into the seamless mirror covering the entire cathedral ceiling that duplicates its many thousands of delicate, treacle coloure
d tears, I am reminded, as I have been every time I have stood here: as above, so below.
The glimmering mosaic-tile compass rose under my feet is also reflected above me. Its mirror image shows me standing in the centre the compass circled by a halo of unbroken amber, with the North, where I came in, at my back, and it’s polar opposite straight in front of me. The candles illuminating the South wall immediately command my attention, and as I level my gaze at the centre of their light, at the life size portrait of the great Luminary who built the beginnings of this Castle and who has also governed that corner of the world for over two thousand years, I feel the absence of my best friend more than ever.
I step closer to the portrait; close enough so the depiction of him fills my view and nothing else. There he is. The Fire Prince of the South. Known to the Tor People as Prince Dural, but to me as Mike. He is standing tall in full iron plate body armour, holding his sword in his right hand and his shield painted with a naked woman asleep inside a circle of flames in his left. His blazing golden wings streaming high and wide from his back command all of the space behind him; his amber speckled eyes are thoughtful and glinting; his dark hair is wavy and long, and his look is as sure and wilful as the weapons he is holding. The artist’s and the subject’s message is clear: here stands a great being of light whose mission is to fight for and protect the truth.
This elaborate portrait of him, grandly framed in the South’s traditional hickory and gilded with gold, was painted over six centuries ago, but if I gave the Prince a haircut and dressed him in jeans, t-shirt and his favourite navy blue Converse boots, he would look just like the Mike who walks me to school every day. This impressive work of art painted by a great master of the age is priceless and sacred to many, but I’d much rather look at the cross eyed selfie he took on my iPhone a little over a week ago when he was just an over achieving teenager from the hills.
Before heading up to meet Mum, I decide to quickly pay homage to the three other corners, knowing that I’ll see their Luminaries and their clans in the flesh in two short days. I turn to the left and stride up to the East corner, to the stained glass window depicting Avira, the Air Princess of the East. With her flowing black hair, her sparkling night eyes, her bronze skin, her breathtaking wings like rays of sunlight and sky-blue silk dress draping her sylphlike frame, I am quickly reminded of her engulfing beauty and her impulsiveness. Just like the skies, she is mysterious and awe inspiring, and her mood can change without warning; so far with good reason as she stays strong in her role to maintain the natural balance. I bow my head, thanking her for her service to the world and for being a good friend and ally to Mike over the centuries, especially for the times she watched over the South land’s when Mike was caught up dealing with me.
I turn and continue walking to my left, back to the front door and to the North corner. Intricately carved into the back of the huge oak door is a depiction of Arthos, now the Earth Prince of the North. His tall, sturdy frame is covered neck to knee in bear fur, his tussled hair is tied in a knot at the back of his thick neck, and as I look into his round face, I warmly think of his twinkling hazel eyes, the colour of clover green and honey, I see most days.
My goofy uncle, originally known as Arthos of Arran, was once the wise ruler of this Castle, but now he is king of a much smaller hillside castle where my Aunt Romey once again reigns as his Queen. I miss them terribly and I pray that they are both safely on their way. I can’t wait to run into one of Uncle Craig’s bear hugs. I’m even up for a long bout of Aunt Romey’s nagging. I kiss my palm and press it to Prince Arthos’s round, woody cheek, and continue around to my left: to my last stop before I head upstairs to see Mum.
Tallulah, the Water Princess of the West, is a Morganite, the younger sister of my dearly departed friend Captain Morgan Senior, and the loving, but claws-out-protective, great-aunt of Captain Morgan Junior. She, like her kin, has large sea-green eyes, a cheery oval-shaped face with small features, webbed hands and feet, and lightly scaled skin that glimmers like mother of pearl, but, unlike them, she is short in stature and voluptuous, and her hair tumbles down to the small of her back in rich copper curls. Her colourings I only know from memory; the life-size statue of her gracefully sitting in the centre of the majestic fountain filling the West corner is sculpted from the whitest marble, representing the age-old wisdom and the purity of heart this compassionate Lady of the Sea is known for.
Feeling more at home now I have visited with some of my nearest and dearest, I walk towards the sand stone wall in the South-West corner and the curved stairway hiding behind it. I climb the long flight of stairs and wander down the long, cream carpeted, rosewood panelled hallway in a familiar daze, past Nanna’s room, Aunt Romey and Uncle Craig’s room, Mum and Dad’s room…
I stop dead in my tracks like I have been struck by a bolt of lightning.
Mum and Dad’s room…
Mum and Dad…
Rhoda and Eli…
Mum’s husband, Eli…
My father, Eli…
My father, Eli…Yarden…
As I allow my mind’s eye to take in every one of his faces, I can clearly remember him in every life time since the first…
Eli Yarden…
Always a priest…
Always a teacher…
Either in front of the masses…
Or amongst the shadows…
Wherever he was needed, he was there…
For them…
For me…
Sometimes here, but always there…
Always there as my loving father.
I am snapped into the here and now by the muffled sounds Mum is making on the other side of their bedroom door: her sweetly humming as she opens and closes drawers and wardrobe doors as she unpacks. I spin on my heel to go and bang on her door, to ask her to help feed my memories, but they are coming in such a torrent, I realise that all I need to fully reacquaint myself with my father is solitude.
I bolt for the next door on the right, to the room that has always been mine, eager to surround myself with all of my lifetimes and my belongings, to be enveloped in the safety and sanctuary this room has always given me. I throw open my door, slam it closed and slump back against it as I am trounced by endless memories of Eli, that, as they file through, they affectionately imprint on my psyche, leaving me feeling exhausted and awestruck in their wake.
“Are you okay, Rose?” a sleepy, all too familiar voice asks from our…huh? My bed.
I throw open my eyes and shriek, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?!” at a seemingly unsurprised Josh, who looks more put out that I have noisily disrupted his nap.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he groggily replies.
Chapter 16
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?!” I scream again at the now standing Josh Feneri.
He is so tall and lean, except for the biceps and pectoral muscles that have clearly made themselves known now he has crossed his arms over his chest. Most people looming over me in this stance would come across as being armoured and indisputable, but he is not giving off that vibe at all. He seems to be more thoughtful, and what from I can read, smug, which quickly takes the shine off the intoxicating, all knowing grin spread across his face.
“Our room,” he calmly states.
My automatic response is to clench my fists and shake all over, but before I can think twice, I have already taken the stride needed to be toe to toe with his huge size twelve feet. Drawing in a deep breath, I growl through my teeth, “How can you claim that this is your…our…room, IF YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN HERE BEFORE!” I finish yelling up into his sun kissed face, staring down his wide baby blue eyes, which I can’t help but notice really do look bigger and bluer thanks to his long black eyelashes.
Gaping back at me, his chiselled nose twitches and he smiles big, showing two rows of slightly crooked, well looked after teeth. My focus is now completely taken over by five-dimensional memories of his mouth, and I have the sudden urge to reach
up and run my palm over the brindle-brown stubble framing it. But then I realise that he is probably smirking like that because he is a snicker off laughing at me, and I now want to use my palm to smack that self-righteous smirk right off his face.
Shooting daggers through my eyes combined with the dirtiest look I can muster, he responds by knowingly, and annoyingly, shaking his head in what I am reading as disbelief, runs one hand through his long, silky, ginger-ale coloured layers and says, “They’re right. Being with you, seeing your expressions, your way…it’s bringing it all back.” The softness in his gaze hits me square in the chest, forcing me to drop the scowl to swallow the saliva building up in my mouth. “And, I have been here before, Ren,” he softly adds. “I followed you here.”
Instantly disagreeing, I defiantly shake my head. “No, you didn’t follow me here. The first time we came to Earth was together,” I point out, suddenly feeling strange. “It was Mike who followed us…here…the first time…” I babble through a rush of wooziness as torturous images of Joshua’s whipped, bleeding and broken body flesh flash red behind my eyes.
“I think we should sit,” he says, gently steering me towards the small settee by the window. I reluctantly lower myself into the chair he has pulled out for me, wincing to emphasise my resistance about hearing any more, but the sincerity of his look not only stresses the importance of what he is about to say, it lights up forgotten corners of my heart and mind shrouded in cobwebs. “In my only earthly lifetime before this one, I followed you here, to the Apple Isle,” he clarifies.
“But….but…that’s impossible. You…died!” I cry out and slump across the table, as the merciless stabs of ancient grief, loss, and guilt sever through my defences, opening up a lost world of emotions, possibilities and regrets that rain hot tears down my cheeks. “They tortured you! They killed you! And…and…we…left you. We left you behind,” I shamefully sob into the cold, hard wood.