said, warningly. “I can’t just leave her,” I told him. “You have to, Chris,” he said. “You either move on or stay the way you are.”
“I can’t just leave her,” I repeated. I blinked and looked around. The man was gone. So quickly that I had to think he’d been a figment of my mind. I sank down on the cold, damp ground, inert and miserable. Poor Ann, I thought. She’d have to start a new life now. All our plans were ruined. The places we were going to visit, the exciting projects we had planned. To write a play together, combining her intense memories of the past and her insight with my abilities. To buy a piece of woods somewhere where she could photograph the wild life while I wrote about it. To buy a motor home and take a year to drive around the country, seeing every detail of it. To travel, finally, to the places we had always talked about but never seen. To be together, enjoying life and each other’s company.
All ended now. She was alone; I’d failed her. I should have lived. It was my own fault I’d been killed. I’d been stupid and careless. Now she was alone. I didn’t deserve her love. I’d wasted many moments in life we could have spent together. Now I’d thrown away the remainder of our time.
I’d betrayed her.
The more I thought about it, the more despondent I became. Why wasn’t she right in her belief? I thought bitterly. Better that death was an end, a cessation. Anything was preferable to this. I felt devoid of hope, hollowed by despair. There was no meaning to survival. Why go on like this? It was futile and pointless.
I don’t know how long I sat like that and thought like that. It seemed an eternity, Robert—just me, abandoned in chilling, mucilaginous fog, sunk in abject sorrow.
Only after a long, long time did I begin to alter what I thought. Only after a long, long time, recall what the man had told me: that I could leave this place by concentrating on what was beyond it. What was beyond it though?
Does it matter? I thought. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than this.
All right, try then, I told myself.
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize a better place. A place with sunlight, warmth, with grass and trees. A place like the ones we used to take our camper to all those years.
I finally settled, in my mind, on a glade of redwood trees in northern California where the six of us—Ann, Louise, Richard, Marie, Ian and I—had stood one August afternoon at twilight, none of us speaking, listening to the vast, enveloping silence of nature.
I seemed to feel my body pulsing; forward, upward. I opened my eyes in startlement. Had I imagined it?
I closed my eyes and tried again, re-visualizing that immense, still glade.
I felt my body pulsing once more. It was true. Some incredible pressure—gentle, yet insistent—was behind me, pushing, bearing. I felt my breath grow larger, larger, achingly large. I concentrated harder and the move accelerated. I was rushing forward, rushing upward. The sensation was alarming but exhilarating too. I didn’t want to lose it now. For the first time since the accident, I felt a glimmer of peace within myself. And the beginning of a knowledge; an astonishing insight.
There is more.
Summerland
Continuation at another level
I OPENED MY eyes and looked up. Overhead, I saw green foliage and, through it, blue sky. There was no sign of mist; the air was clear. I took a breath of it. It had a cool, invigorating smell. I felt a gentle breeze against my face.
Sitting up, I looked around. I’d been lying on a patch of grass. The trunk of the tree I sat beneath was close by. I reached out and felt its bark. And something more—a kind of energy flowing from it.
I reached down and touched the grass. It looked immaculately cared for. I pushed aside a clump of it and examined the soil. Its color was complementary to the shade of the grass. There were no weeds of any kind.
Pulling out a blade of grass, I held it against my cheek. I
“I can’t just leave her,” I repeated. I blinked and looked around. The man was gone. So quickly that I had to think he’d been a figment of my mind. I sank down on the cold, damp ground, inert and miserable. Poor Ann, I thought. She’d have to start a new life now. All our plans were ruined. The places we were going to visit, the exciting projects we had planned. To write a play together, combining her intense memories of the past and her insight with my abilities. To buy a piece of woods somewhere where she could photograph the wild life while I wrote about it. To buy a motor home and take a year to drive around the country, seeing every detail of it. To travel, finally, to the places we had always talked about but never seen. To be together, enjoying life and each other’s company.
All ended now. She was alone; I’d failed her. I should have lived. It was my own fault I’d been killed. I’d been stupid and careless. Now she was alone. I didn’t deserve her love. I’d wasted many moments in life we could have spent together. Now I’d thrown away the remainder of our time.
I’d betrayed her.
The more I thought about it, the more despondent I became. Why wasn’t she right in her belief? I thought bitterly. Better that death was an end, a cessation. Anything was preferable to this. I felt devoid of hope, hollowed by despair. There was no meaning to survival. Why go on like this? It was futile and pointless.
I don’t know how long I sat like that and thought like that. It seemed an eternity, Robert—just me, abandoned in chilling, mucilaginous fog, sunk in abject sorrow.
Only after a long, long time did I begin to alter what I thought. Only after a long, long time, recall what the man had told me: that I could leave this place by concentrating on what was beyond it. What was beyond it though?
Does it matter? I thought. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than this.
All right, try then, I told myself.
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize a better place. A place with sunlight, warmth, with grass and trees. A place like the ones we used to take our camper to all those years.
I finally settled, in my mind, on a glade of redwood trees in northern California where the six of us—Ann, Louise, Richard, Marie, Ian and I—had stood one August afternoon at twilight, none of us speaking, listening to the vast, enveloping silence of nature.
I seemed to feel my body pulsing; forward, upward. I opened my eyes in startlement. Had I imagined it?
I closed my eyes and tried again, re-visualizing that immense, still glade.
I felt my body pulsing once more. It was true. Some incredible pressure—gentle, yet insistent—was behind me, pushing, bearing. I felt my breath grow larger, larger, achingly large. I concentrated harder and the move accelerated. I was rushing forward, rushing upward. The sensation was alarming but exhilarating too. I didn’t want to lose it now. For the first time since the accident, I felt a glimmer of peace within myself. And the beginning of a knowledge; an astonishing insight.
There is more.
Summerland
Continuation at another level
I OPENED MY eyes and looked up. Overhead, I saw green foliage and, through it, blue sky. There was no sign of mist; the air was clear. I took a breath of it. It had a cool, invigorating smell. I felt a gentle breeze against my face.
Sitting up, I looked around. I’d been lying on a patch of grass. The trunk of the tree I sat beneath was close by. I reached out and felt its bark. And something more—a kind of energy flowing from it.
I reached down and touched the grass. It looked immaculately cared for. I pushed aside a clump of it and examined the soil. Its color was complementary to the shade of the grass. There were no weeds of any kind.
Pulling out a blade of grass, I held it against my cheek. I