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Wednesday, 14th March 2012, 8.16 a.m.
Arthur, Arthur, came a sound, a whisper on a breeze, that slipped quietly through his dreams. Arthur, Arthur slid through gently, serenely and on those words he sat, gliding down a grassy slope in the warm afternoon sun, guided by a grace that was not his own. He was content to be led on a word that felt familiar, down a hill he’d never seen but knew intimately. As he glided on, one Arthur behind the other, he realised he could lie back if he chose. Sitting up pleased him as he could see the flitting swallows above, the parting grass before him and the sun glinting on the sea far below. He approached the sea and it seemed to come no nearer.
As he looked up he fancied he could see – or was it feel? – a thudding in the clouds behind him.
He became happily drowsy and lay back on the two Arthurs with no sensation of their touch. Looking up he saw not sky but a face; a face he knew well, he supposed. The face was close, blurred, and its lips were moving, saying something – saying, “Arthur, Arthur,” the very words he was lying on, sliding on. His eyes saw the face but didn’t look at it – he looked through it, wondering – how could that be there, not the sky.
The thudding in the sky seemed to be closing in. It was definitely a feeling now.
The face moved back and the mouth – a familiar mouth, somehow – was still moving, saying Arthur and other words. He could see the eyes now and, like the mouth, looked sad happy ... mmm, sad happy? Yes, that’s what they looked like. The face still filled his sky as he slipped gently down the grassy slope towards the sea. There was a light now, behind the face, shining through hair and around the edges. There might be, perhaps, other sounds, human sounds and the birds had stopped chirping.
The face moved closer and seemed comforting; warmly comforting and he was pleased it was there. His forehead was touched gently, caressingly, and he smiled.
And then the smell of the grass gave way to the scent of roses ... mmm, not quite roses, but a scent he knew well, a scent he longed would remain. The scent, whatever it was, revived old chipped memories, fragments of events unconnected, parts of a life that felt familiar, parts of several lives, perhaps – child-times, adult-times, baby-times, teenage-times, all scattered about as confetti in the gentle breeze of his mind. This scent, so familiar, brought with it smiles, disappointment, sweetness, loss, fear, calm, hurrying, boredom and exquisite peace as after love-making.
As he looked at her emerging face he realised he wasn’t seeing it as he usually saw faces, saw bodies, saw things. There was no distinct nose or mouth or eyes, no individual pieces, different from other pieces. It was like an unfolding picture in lights but not individual, twinkling lights ... it was a picture in light, one light, bright and subtle. He imagined he was looking at a patch of water on a still lake, into which a small pebble had been dropped, a hundred yards away. The surface of the water before him might be moving. It might not be moving. He was not sure. The light, her light, might be moving. It might not be moving. He was not sure. He knew her light to be different from the background light and the light of other beings but he wasn’t sure how he was distinguishing these differences.
In the gentle light he sensed a concern, a worry about the container, the capsule, labelled as Arthur. Ah, yes, his small capsule – that was what she feared for. He understood her fears and was, at the same time, bemused for he knew there was nothing to fear, to worry over. The small capsules, with all their different labels, were not what was really there.
He looked in and saw ... no, not saw ... knew his capsule was open – perhaps for the first time – and a larger essence had been released to encompass ... well, everything, really. There were no boundaries, no limits, and it just sort-of flowed into other essences, slightly separate but not.
The capsule he’d known so well seemed to be closed and, inside, it held all its fears and concerns. He was touched and the formless light of his essence enfolded her capsule and she burst into tears – a flood of tears so long held back and now released with the relief of an ancient knowing that cleansed face and soul.
“Arthur, you’re back, you’re awake!” came her voice through the mist of his gentle perplexity.
Unused to such a way of seeing things ... of knowing things ... he relaxed, unconcerned, and enjoyed the small blissful waves of light as they caressed him.
“Arthur, can you speak, can you hear me?” came her voice as her concern washed over him. “Your eyes are open, my love. Are you there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here ... awake,” he said softly, knowing she needed reassurance in physical form.
“Oh Arthur, it’s been all night and now you’re back,” she said as he felt a dampness on his face and then her soft face against his cheek .... her soft and very familiar face against his cheek.
His temple, his cheek, were caressed in warmth and his eyes closed at the sweetness. The caress stopped and his eyes opened. The face became less blurred, more distinct. He knew the face. It had a name. His mind reached for the name. It did not come. He looked more intently and the focus improved. Her face was still close, still saying words that were starting to straighten themselves out and become separate, nearly distinct.
The thudding continued to close in on him and a small pain crept into his head. His mind went to his body and he could sense nothing – a no-body, a no-sense, unfelt, unsensed. He tried to move a finger and was surprised to find it was there, as usual. Satisfied, he looked back at the face, now becoming more distinct, more ... mmm, more ... oh gosh, he knew that face! It spoke of love, caring and a deep history to him but no name came. It then spoke a name, its name, and he was filled. It spoke of Joan and all those shattered fragments of memories fused together in a quiet completion of a life that was his own. He tried one arm and it had a familiar weight. He tried raising it and fancied it did as he bid it do. As his arm reached for Joan’s face, he felt dripping on him and she embraced him as he smiled and was complete.
The thudding had filled his head now and its intensity was growing.
“Is he alright?” asked Arthur weakly.
“Is who alright dear?” asked Joan.
“The man,” said Arthur, taking another breath. “The man I hit.”
“Ah him, that damned Sanderson?” asked Joan. “Yes, you rather damaged his kidneys and other bits, you savage man, you!”
“But ... is he alright?” asked Arthur, desperate for an answer as he struggled for another breath.
“Well, he was in a pretty bad way after you’d beaten him with that vase and cabinet,” said Joan. “I didn’t know you had it in you, darling!”
“I didn’t hit him with it ...” protested Arthur weakly.
“Well, no one else was there to do it!” said Joan, laughing and interrupting him before he could get another breath. “You’re quite the hero, my dear!”
“But I didn’t hit him with ...” said Arthur with more to say while his strength to say it deserted him. He needed to know if the man was alright but the thudding was closing in. He just wanted to escape it, in blissful sleep, which was also closing in.
“And the others?” asked Arthur weakly.
“Yes, unfortunately Sanderson got taken off to hospital while Amanda and Toby were arrested,” said Joan. “One of Martin’s colleagues is working with Lord Atkinson to have them released.” “Oh dear,” said Arthur as words became harder to manage.
“Can I tell you what else happened?” she asked and he sensed ... knew ... her need to keep him talking, keep communicating, lest their link be broken. But only the link between capsules could be broken, he knew, somehow. The link between essences was always there.
“Yes dear, what happened?” he asked to help reassure her he was still with her. In that moment he knew all that had happened. It was not a sequence of events, one thing after another that went through his mind. It was as if the Hands of Time – the Hands of God, perhaps – held the long telescope of time before him and then had silently collapsed it so that all events and sequences came to him in one bundle of knowing. He let her tell her story, however, for the throbbing was closing in and he knew he must return to more sleep to have it soften its thudding.
He could hear her voice telling of events that he already knew as the deepness of sleep called invitingly to him. Soon Arthur wasn’t aware of anything.
