‘And they had written them all down?’
‘Yes, without fail. They were lonely, these people. They found it hard to connect to others, because they carried a truth they knew would not be accepted. And yet still they felt they needed to speak it, somehow, to someone.’
Morag turns to me with a friendly smile.
‘Perhaps that’s why you got into television, Elliot.’
Zoe and I exchange a look — the first since the night before.
‘Stanley’s box,’ she says. I nod and reach into my jacket.
‘What’s this?’ says my father.
‘From the boy in the photograph.’
A look of delight crosses his face.
‘You found him?’
‘His daughter.’
He clutches the box for a second, like an unopened present. Then he takes it to a shelf and places it beside a tall wooden crate. He pats it once, and turns back to us, hands in his pockets, bobbing with a satisfied smile.
‘Now then, you remember our friends in Peru?’
‘The tribe?’
Yes, well we discovered that they were actually a particularly prolonged and intense example of something relatively common in the world of Gleaners. A Knot.’
‘You mentioned that word yesterday,’ says Zoe.
‘Yes, probably when I was getting ahead of myself. Well, one night, long after she returned and I felt the time was right, I asked her what had happened up in those mountains, and she told me.’
Morag has been running her fingers over the beams and shelves.
‘Lucy made good friends with one of the tribe,’ she says. ‘A young woman of her own age. They used to take evening walks by a small lake near the village, and one time she asked her, “how do you live the way you live, with no conflict?” Her friend’s answer was simple.’
Morag turns to us with a smile.
‘“Because we remember each other.” She explained that, for as long as the tribe could remember, they had each been able to remember each other’s lives, the same way we can, except with them it was permanent and constant. Every single one of them, old or young, knew the lives of the others, and this continued, generation after generation, life after life. They had long ago started to believe that they shared the same soul, that they were nothing more than the same being, spread between bodies and recycled within the confines of their existence. To them, living in such isolation and in such relatively small numbers, it was perfectly normal and pleasant. There was no concept of self, of I or You or We. Just One. They looked after each other, because to do otherwise was tantamount to suicide.’
She looks at me, eyes twinkling in the candlelight.
‘Does that sound “impractical”, Elliot?’
I ignore the quip and turn to my father.
‘And you found more of these Knots?’
‘Yes, a great many, and I believe you’re one of them.’
‘Why?’
‘You and Zoe remember two other lives — the boys Rupert and James, who knew each other, and who knew’ — he points at Morag — ‘Lucy, my wife and your mother, remembered by Morag. And our old friend William, a Gleaner like you, was there with all three of you at the same time and the same place in your other lives.’
He takes a long breath.
‘And you’re all here together now. Do I have that right?’
We nod, uncertainly.
‘Good. So, quite a few coincidences there, wouldn’t you say? How did Morag find William, how did William find you, how did you find each other — all seemingly without effort?’
‘It’s too much to be a coincidence,’ says Zoe.
‘Exactly,’ says my father, wagging his finger. ‘Exactly.’
‘So how?’
‘The tribe told of an ancient tragedy,’ says Morag. ‘At least, to them it was ancient — a few hundred years ago perhaps. The story went that a fire grew out of control and swept through the village, killing a father and his daughter who were trapped in a fallen hut. They believed that’s where the Knot began.’
‘A tragedy,’ says my father. ‘A particular event in a single series of lives that remains unresolved. Think of the way a victim of trauma experiences recurring dreams, their mind’s only way of attempting to resolve the mess. It’s the same thing — life after life, a single soul conglomerating in a single group.’
‘You’re saying that’s what we are?’ I say. ‘A single soul?’
‘But we were all born far apart,’ says Zoe, ‘and we remember different lives. That’s not the same as the tribe.’
‘No, not quite, but it can take some generations for the Knot to pull together, so to speak. At the time of the fire, the tribe would probably have still been in communication with others around them. People would have come and gone; the threads would have taken a while to tighten, so to speak.’
‘By forces beyond their ken,’ says Morag, looking at me.
My father looks nervously about. ‘You know, there were stories about Lucy’s farm, something that happened, a cover-up. Lucy could never properly remember what had happened. She was too young, you see – ’
He breaks off suddenly and directs his gaze to a shelf on the far wall, to which he strides. Rummaging through it he pulls out an old book, falling apart at the seams, with yellowing pages sticking out at odd angles.
‘Here, look at this.’ He brings the book across and motions to some old armchairs. ‘Sit, sit.’
He takes the seat between us.
‘What is it?’ I say.
‘This is another old example of a Knot. Let’s see now…’
He leafs through the pages.
‘Dum de dum de dum blah blah blah oh yes, here we are: I, Frederick Archibald Grey of Fenstone Passage, Blackfriars, on this day of 15th December 1832 do declare the following to be the truth and nothing but that. As a man of few means I have little to gain other than the hopeful expungement of thoughts and memories that have plagued my dreams for…Crikey…he goes on a bit here, mind you they all did back then…’
He skips a few pages.
‘Right, yes, down to the nitty gritty. On 2nd June last year, as I was cleaning my rifle — he was a hunter, I believe — I became aware of a shadow darkening my doorstep and when I looked up, there I beheld a woman of some forty or forty-five years of age, dressed in a habit as wear the nuns of the chapel, but stripped to ribbons, and she had a most ugly countenance and the odour of fish and fuckhouses…good grief…I called at her to depart and leave the air fresher and the step brighter for me to continue my work, but she would not.
‘“I believe I know you,” she said. And I replied “You do not, old hag, now let me to my work.” But she persisted in her position, and most discomforted was I for this to happen, for she sent me rare chills.
‘“I do know you,” she went on. “I am certain of it, sir.”
‘I stood up then, ready to push her in the belly with the butt of my rifle for such impertinence, but as I did stand, the sun, which I forget to mention was very bright that day, did dip behind a building and her face became clearer. As it did, I found I could not stand, because at that moment I did see that I too knew her, but from where or when I could not tell. I do not take drink, nor am I a forgetful man, despite not being highly educated, and I do not forget faces. But for the devil I could not tell you where this face had placed in my history, though very well I knew it belonged there.
‘I suddenly felt a great affinity to her and I dropped my rifle to the ground, and she led me away by the hand to a small meadow not far from the street, where we sat and we talked in quiet voices about how we might know each other.
‘As we talked I became aware of a most unusual feeling occurring within. I felt as if I were having memories which did not belong to me. All of a sudden I saw this woman in my mind’s eye, having taken another form. Everything about her was different. Her face was fair and pleasing. Her hair was long and soft and smelled of such beautiful things I cannot describe. And her c
lothes were few, but colourful and sheer, like a princess, although I could see the flesh of her legs almost to their tops. And she wore strange spectacles that were as black as stone. And we were in a carriage of metal and glass that shone and sped across a country I have never seen at such colossal speeds that I felt dizzy. And she was laughing at me, and I knew that we were lovers. And then, in a little looking glass that hung from the ceiling of the carriage, I saw myself. And I was changed too. But I knew that I was me, and that she was her, and no doubt about it. And from behind me then I heard a little voice. And I looked and saw a little girl of five or six, and she was strapped to a seat with black flat rope, but not in dismay, and I have never felt such happiness.
‘All at once, I felt this memory retreat and the real world of the meadow and this woman filled out again, t’were like sand from a glass bulb pouring into me. And this woman, whose name were Magda, was howling and shrieking with misery, for what neither I nor her could fathom…
‘Goodness, our friend Mr Grey does go on. Let’s see, he says they consoled each other most gratifyingly…not sure what that means…and then spent some days after in his chambers experiencing strange dreams and visions. After a week, here, he says, We emerged from the gloom and were soon overcome by the strange belief that we could see as others, be as others, think as others.’
My father turns to me.
‘Sound familiar? Then, see, he says, Magda one day drew a mark on her hand, a large “M” in great arches of yellow. When she showed me, I became convinced of something and we set out, without a word of consultation, on a trek to the north of England. We had no horse and it was very cold, but I had my gun and knew my way around the forests, so we kept as warm as we could, using each other for comfort as well, for we were by then most in love…Ah, isn’t that sweet? Then in Northumbria we found the place we knew we had been headed, although neither of us could remember having been there in these bodies. And t’were not long afore we found the woman. She was old, at least sixty years. And she looked at us strangely, and then saw the mark on Magda’s hand, and said strange words that we all understood, and we knew that we had found our child.
‘At once we felt bound and united, but t’were not long afore the visions of other folks’ lives became too much to bear. We tried to escape from each other, but it was no good. Eventually the old woman went running into the market square, pulling out her hair and throwing herself straight beneath the hooves of a galloping horse and was killed.
‘He goes on to say that he and this Magda woman — his sweetheart from another life — could not shake what he calls the “curse of otherness”, and took refuge in an abandoned church for many nights, thinking they would die there. But then, one night, he awoke from the most terrifying dream. He was back in the speeding carriage, smiling at his lover and the young girl in the back. When he turned back to the road he saw a huge effigy of the “M” on Magda’s hand swooping past on the roadside. His child called out “Nuggets!” but before he could speak, the woman screamed, and he saw another carriage speeding towards them, just as fast and just as perilously, and he knew that they were done.
‘He woke Magda and told her the dream, and they both knew that it was what had happened. He says that in that instant he felt the visions settle, and although he was upset, he was overcome with relief. He and Magda took one last look at each other and parted company, never to see one another again.’
He shuts the book.
‘A Knot, you see? A small group of individuals who have experienced some traumatic event — in this case a car crash that killed a young family — and find each other again. They become stuck together, like magnets, and a kind of feedback occurs that becomes unbearable.’
‘So you’re saying that we were part of some traumatic event in this other life?’ says Zoe.
‘Almost certainly,’ says my father. ‘That’s why you’re here now. And if you want to regain control of your gift visions, then you have to remember what happened.’
I shake my head.
‘I can’t. All I have are flashes, feelings. They’re vivid, but not quite concrete.’
‘Mine too,’ says Zoe.
‘Rupert would have been a teenager when this happened. It was only a few years before he was killed in the war, barely a man. But think — can you remember the farm?’
Zoe studies the floorboards.
‘I remember the smell of it, the chicken shed, his mother’s bread.’ Her expression falls. ‘His father.’
My father makes a grumbling sound and nods gravely.
‘I remember my father-in-law. Mr Sutton was an old man when I met him and not long for the Earth. He had very few words for me. He was a cold man. A hard man.’ His eyes meet Zoe’s. ‘Cruel, some might say.’
He turns to me.
‘Elliot. Do you remember the farm? Schmidt?’
I try, but it’s hard, like looking through gauze.
‘We were far from home. I was angry, scared, and lonely. Schmidt frightened me; he made everything worse. But I can’t…’
‘I’ve found it.’
Morag’s voice is measured and firm. She is standing by a section of shelf in one corner, looking down at a tin in her hands.
‘I’d forgotten until we came here,’ says Morag. ‘I think it’s what William was looking for. He gave it to her when he was here, and she hid it when he left.’
There’s a thumping sound from downstairs. Our necks stiffen. Silence. We strain to hear. We clamber down from the attic, passing the candle between us, and take the creaking stairs back to the shop. The room is now bathed in watery dawn light, muted by cloud. William is searching the shelves.
‘William,’ says Morag, carefully. He turns and, seeing the tin in her hands, releases a long, slow breath like a train disappearing into a tunnel. She hands it to him, and we watch him turn it in the grey light.
‘What is it?’ I say.
‘Schmidt’s memories.’
William suddenly snatches the tin to his chest and looks around the room with a hunted look, shoulders rising and falling with rapid breaths. His eyes land on me, and for a moment his mouth claws for words. But then it shuts, and he turns, and makes for the door.
MEMORY
WE RUN TO THE window.
Zoe cries, ‘William!’
He is crossing the harbour, pulling his cloak to protect him from the sea’s sodden blasts.
‘Where’s he going?’ says my father.
‘I don’t know, but he’s not safe,’ says Zoe. ‘Come on.’
Onto the harbour, we’re suddenly exposed in the empty space; there is still nobody around, but curtains are open and there is the sound of traffic from the roads behind.
‘William, come back!’ I shout into the wind.
Morag runs ahead, and catching him up, she touches his elbow. He stops and turns. Her lips move and he watches them, intently, crawling inside each word as the wind makes long tendrils of his hair.
He turns his head in my direction, blinking away the salt air. Then he gives Morag one more look and walks on. Morag lets his elbow slip from her hand and watches him leave.
‘We have to follow him,’ she calls back to us.
‘Where?’ I say. The wind is whipping up in brisk howls, swatting away our words.
Morag shakes her head and sets off after him, down the stone steps at the harbour’s north end.
‘He’s heading for the crags,’ says my father.
‘I don’t like this,’ says Zoe, looking behind her.
‘The crags are protected from the road,’ says my father. ‘The only way is from the harbour. I’ll stay here and keep a lookout from the back of the shop. Do you have a mobile phone, Elliot?’
‘No.’
‘Mine’s in the car,’ says Zoe.
‘Take mine.’
My father hands me an old Motorola.
‘I’ll call it from the shop if I see anything suspicious. Go.’
We take the steps down to the weed-strewn
beach. The sand rises to our right, pushed into snaking dune summits and swept away into fierce clouds. We follow William. He is moving like I have never seen him move, and we have to skip and jog to catch up. His eyes are trained on the far end of the cove, where the rocks are piled at the base of the headland. Even his back seems straighter.
‘I know this place,’ says Zoe. Her eyes are everywhere, taking in the gull-scattered sky, foaming surf and rough-hewn boulders as if they have been thrown from a dream.
‘I do too.’
I have walked this beach countless times as a boy, but my own childhood is not where the memories are calling from now. My eyes travel to Morag’s footprints. For a moment the world is swept away and I see the same footprints, but smaller; the same sand, but yellower. The day is cold, the sky is blue and bright, and I am running, running after her, two others by my side, laughing…
‘What’s wrong?’
The world of darker hues and older bodies imposes itself once again. I find myself standing with Zoe, looking down at the wet sand.
‘Nothing. Keep going.’
William has arrived at the rocks. With surprising agility he scales the boulders, cloak flapping in the wind like a fleeing highwayman. Morag follows, then Zoe, then…
…My hand touches the black rock. It’s a rock I have touched a hundred times in my youth. But this time it sends a jolt up my arm. The world judders and once again I am back in that place. I look down and see my arm, tanned and skinny, the limb of a boy. My white shirt flutters in the breeze, and I hear my name called from above. A different name.
‘Come on, James, I’ll help you up.’
I squint up at the towering silhouette of the boy on the rocks. Rupert. A strong arm reaches down. I don’t want to take it; I want to prove myself to him.
‘James, take my hand.’
‘Elliot.’
The world transitions. A blue afterimage hangs in the grey sky, wavering and disappearing as my eyes readjust. Zoe’s hand is there.
The Other Lives Page 28