Blinded by the Light

by Sherry Ashworth

  She squeezed my hand. I squeezed it back. I moved my fingers against hers. When she spoke again her voice was charged with emotion.

  “I love being with the White Ones! Fletcher is right – we’re a family. Apart from my music, this is all I’ll ever need. And I wouldn’t have met you if it hadn’t been for the White Ones. One of my best moments was hearing that you’d decided to follow the path of Light. I just know we have a special bond!”

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “I can feel it too.”

  It was the truth.

  So this was my life. I lived at home and read Rendall’s Book, and kept fit by going to the gym – my dad bought me six months’ membership as a Christmas present. I spent most evenings at the farm. Mum and Dad complained a bit but I explained that since both the Red King and Electric Avenue had dispensed with my services as it was the slack season, I had nothing else to do. I could tell they didn’t like it but they were wary of upsetting me. Just as well. But it was getting increasingly hard to practise ASD at home. In the end it was the ASD that forced the issue.

  Normally I worked my ASD round the times I was at the farm, so, for example, I’d deprive myself of taste – which meant fasting – at the weekend, when I was with the White Ones. I wouldn’t risk it at home. The last thing I wanted was my mum worrying that I’d got anorexia or something because she saw that I wasn’t eating. I was planning to explain to my parents about ASD, but I was waiting until the time was right. But recently I was worried that I’d been falling behind with my programme. That was why I risked doing a not-hearing day at home.

  I inserted the earplugs in the morning after my mum had gone to work and put the answerphone on. Then I messed around on the computer – the White Ones have a website but the address is not in the public domain. I read some of Rendall’s Book. Did you know, when he was coming back from his near-death experience the whole text was imprinted on his mind in one moment? He was able to recall every word later, every word. Fletcher says this is probably similar to the way Moses received the Ten Commandments. The stone tablet business was a myth so people would believe him. Most people find it hard to grasp phenomena which defy rational explanation. That’s why so many religions employ stories to tell truths, like the parables. But I’m drifting here. What I’m saying is that the sense of time passing is something we only experience in this life. In the other world, there’s no such thing as time.

  I told myself that as my day inched forward. Not being able to hear much meant I didn’t want to go out, and time was passing very slowly. I stopped myself looking at the clock and instead tried some White Light meditation. I reminded myself that time meant nothing, except it was strange that something that was nothing could weigh so heavily. The hands on the clock hardly budged.

  In fact I was quite glad when Gemma got back from school and my parents came in. The earplugs didn’t take away all of my hearing, but just muffled sounds, and Gemma’s got such a loud voice it was easy to make out the gist of what she was saying and to react accordingly. Mum was busy in the kitchen. Neither of them had noticed that I wasn’t hearing. It made me realise how little attention people usually pay to one another. Mum and Gemma just wittered without really listening to anyone else. I felt distant from them, one remove away.

  So the day had gone well and it must have been about eight. We were watching TV – one of the soaps. That is, Gemma was watching it, an absent look on her face. Dad was upstairs working. Mum was flicking through the papers, looking up every so often. I didn’t need to listen to know what was going on. Every so often she would be saying to Gemma, What was that? Are they having an affair? Who’s in trouble with the police? And Gemma, irritated, had to recap the plot. My mum only ever drifted in and out of TV programmes; she was always doing two things at once.

  I was looking at the screen thinking how pathetic the soap was, and how, in our bland, processed world we needed this charade of emotion and conflict because everything else was meaningless and devoid of interest. Most people are afraid to live fully so they surround themselves with second-hand lives – soaps, celebrity gossip in magazines, whatever. Two characters were arguing, their faces bulging aggressively. The camera was zooming in, zooming out, extracting every bit of emotion from the scene. You didn’t need to be able to hear what they were saying to enjoy it.

  Then I heard Gemma screaming, “Joe!!”

  My head swerved round.

  “Joe! Mum’s talking to you!”

  Quickly I removed one of the earplugs. I felt a bit guilty and hoped Fletcher would understand when I confessed at the next Evening Service. I hoped the Light would wash away my small act of cowardice. But I thought I’d better find out what it was my mother wanted.

  “Honestly, Joe!” she said. “I’ve been trying to get through to you for the last five minutes. Anyone would think you were deaf.”

  I mumbled an apology and asked her what she wanted.

  “It doesn’t matter. It was nothing.”

  She always does that. Makes out something is a big deal, and then retracts. It’s a guilt trip. The White Ones don’t do that – they speak straight, no poses, no game-playing.

  “Mum,” I said, trying and failing to hide the impatience in my voice. “What did you want?”

  She tutted a bit. “I only wanted to ask you if you thought the settee needed replacing or just re-covering. I told you it wasn’t important. Your dad says new covers would do the trick but I can’t see why we can’t get a new one with interest-free credit. One day we’re going to have to. It might as well be now.”

  “Shhh!” warned Gemma. Her expression was pained. Soaps were her religion.

  “Get a new settee,” I said, knowing that was what Mum wanted to hear.

  It was relatively easy to replace the earplug. Then I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears, partly to make up for the full-on hearing I’d just been experiencing.

  Then I felt a sharp kick in my shin. It was Gemma.

  “Joe, you moron! She’s speaking to you!”

  My mother was looking annoyed now. The soap was over and both of them were directing their attention to me.

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” My mum looked daggers.

  “TV was too loud,” I parried.

  Gemma turned it off then, and I removed an earplug again. I could see my mum thinking, wondering how best to tackle me.

  “Joe,” she began. “Is there something bothering you? You’ve been a bit preoccupied lately. I can understand if you’re a bit fed up, still living at home.”

  I felt sorry for my mum. She has very limited vision. The only reason she could think of for my behaviour was that I wasn’t at uni.

  “I’m fine,” I assured her.

  She looked at me and raised her eyebrows slightly.

  “You were talking before Christmas of travelling in the New Year. You haven’t mentioned your plans for a bit.”

  “They’re on the back burner,” I said.

  “This hasn’t got anything to do with those people in Todmorden?”

  “It’s my own decision,” I snapped at her.

  I saw Mum and Gemma exchange a glance and I was seriously annoyed. I hate it when other people think they know what’s best for you, when you feel their pressure moulding you into what they want you to be. Anger surged through me but I controlled it. Just.

  “Well, I think you’ve been a total pain lately,” Gemma commented.

  I was annoyed, but I wasn’t going to rip into her. She was just a kid. I took a deep breath.

  “You don’t understand,” I said.

  “Too right,” she continued. “I don’t think I want to understand. Like, in the old days, you used to tease me, and I know I used to go at you, but I didn’t really mind. At least you noticed I was there. Now it’s like I’m no one, and Mum’s no one, and Dad’s no one. We’ve all been talking about you. I just thought you ought to know.”

  “Gemma!” Mum said, threat in her voice.

  So it was true
. They’d all been talking about me behind my back. Great. For the first time in my life I’d found something that made me feel good – real friends, a sense of belonging, a mission – and my family were campaigning to take it all away from me. And they didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face. I’d had enough of their tinny, putrid cynicism.

  “Cut it out!” I shouted at Gemma.

  I must have shouted louder than I thought. There was thudding on the stairs and in came my father.

  “What’s going on here?” he commanded.

  By this time Gemma had started crying. Big, whooping, theatrical sobs. Mum’s face was ashen. I could see Dad twitching, itching to get to the bottom of things, to find a victim. It was funny, like I said before – since hanging out with the White Ones I could see so much more clearly. Dad’s rage, Mum’s distress, Gemma’s histrionics, all like a soap playing out in front of my eyes. I was the camera. And at that point I realised the best way to deal with all of this was to detach myself, not to get drawn in.

  “Joe – explain yourself,” my dad bellowed.

  “It’s just the kids.” Mum decided to step in. “Gemma had a go at Joe because he’s been acting a bit distant lately. I think she felt left out.”

  Dad ignored her. His eyes were fixed on me. I knew he’d heard me shouting and he was spoiling for a fight. He had this idea that he ought to be the tough one, the superhero, the defender of family values, the one who kicks ass.

  “Apologise to your sister – at once!”

  “For what?”

  “For a start, shouting at her like you meant to raise the dead.”

  That was unjust and stupid. I could see everyone’s thoughts like clouds of poisonous mosquitoes obscuring my vision. I valued this new vision. I didn’t want to be standing in the living room with my dad’s red face and the beads of sweat on his upper lip, with my mum gripping the sides of the armchair, with Gemma gulping on the settee with its manky, worn cover. I didn’t want to feel myself sucked into the backwash of emotion. I decided to remain silent. I just stood in front of my father, not saying anything. It separated me from them and I knew it would annoy him.

  “Apologise!” he shouted.

  “I don’t need this,” I said to him.

  At all costs I wasn’t going to lose my self-possession. I thought about Fletcher and Nick and the White Ones, how they would cope if they were beset like this. I knew that faced with impurity a White One kept himself pure, unsullied. The best thing to do would be to leave the room, but Dad was standing in the doorway. In my head I recited, May it be my lot to achieve Perfection.

  Gemma stopped bawling and just looked at me. I thought she looked scared for some reason. But I was feeling OK now. I realised all I had to do was keep myself apart from all of this, not let myself get dragged down to their level. I knew my dad wanted to hit me but he wouldn’t. I glanced at Mum. I saw tears in her eyes. That got to me. I knew I owed her an explanation. When my voice came out it sounded different, partly because I was wearing one earplug, partly because I heard myself speaking as a White One.

  “I don’t expect any of you to understand this, but I’ve found a way of life that suits me better than this one. It’s not my intention to hurt you, but I have to move on.”

  “Move on?” asked my dad. “What’s all this about moving on? You shouted at your sister and I’m demanding an apology.”

  I ignored him. “So it may be easier if I go and stay at Lower Fold for a while. I was thinking about it anyway.”

  “You’re staying right here,” my dad said.

  I just shook my head. I knew now what I had to do. It was time to commit myself fully to the White Ones. I couldn’t lead two lives, one here and one at the farm. There was a story in Rendall’s Book about a man who wore two suits of clothes and looked ridiculous. It made the same point. I knew I had to choose, and if I chose my family I would have to give up the White Ones. I couldn’t do that.

  “Sorry,” I said to Dad. “Sorry,” to Mum, and then to Gemma.

  Inside my heart was breaking. They didn’t know it, but this was my farewell. I loved them more at that moment than ever before, and felt, in renouncing them, I was being brave, self-denying, pure. I felt free, light as air.

  I went up to my room. I lay awake most of the night and packed my rucksack when I was sure they were all asleep.

  When I’d done that, I wrote a letter.

  Dear Mum, Dad and Gemma,

  Please don’t think that the argument last night caused this. Also please don’t try to go after me. I’m safe and well and I’ll be in contact from time to time.

  You’ve always said to me that growing up was about finding out who you really were. That’s why you never pushed me into making choices at school but let me find my own path. You also said that a person has to have values, a moral code to live by.

  My friends at Lower Fold Farm have a moral code, but more than that, they have belief and purpose. They’re not wasting their lives. They follow the path of Light. I want to travel with them and now I can see that means doing without the people I love most. I have learnt that love is not bound by space, time or physical proximity, so you can be assured I love you still.

  I promise you, no one, absolutely no one, has talked me into this. I have not been brainwashed, whatever that is. I want to dedicate my life to a higher good and have found a way to do that. This is my choice. I want to say again, don’t come and try to find me. I’m 18, an adult according to the law, and in my right mind.

  I know it will be as hard for you to say goodbye as it is for me. I shall be praying for you. When you think of me, know that I am happy, bathed in Light.

  Joe

  I left the house at five-thirty a.m., and caught the first bus in the direction of Rochdale.

  8.

  From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Induction Service

  The Service is to commence with one or two readings from the Book. The inductee, having fasted for the previous twenty-four hours, is led into the place of meeting by his sponsor. He is dressed in white undergarments and covered in white. After Prayers A and B the leader of the congregation then asks the inductee for an object which represents the past to him. It is placed in a crucible and burnt. The inductee is then led outside to a tub or container of water. He then divests himself of all of his clothing and stands in the water while the Dedication Prayer is read. He then immerses himself in the water, his head below the surface for a minimum of ten seconds. On his re-emergence all are to kiss their fingertips and touch the forehead of the newly born White One. His birth may be marked by a wedding ring, wreaths of white flowers, or gifts of commitment. All then say, “It is the Light, and the Light alone, that separates us and makes us Holy.”

  I can’t believe it. I can’t believe life can be this good.

  That was the thought that kept going round and round my mind, those first few weeks, that spring, with the White Ones. Every morning when I woke I snapped awake, completely ready to get up and do whatever was planned for me – seeing to the greenhouse, cleaning, preparing the Gathering Place for the Dawn Service. Everywhere I went, people smiled at me, showing they liked me. The guys in the men’s house were my brothers, the brothers I never had. Sleeping in the dormitory was like being alone because we were all one, and not being alone because of the different rhythms of each other’s breathing, but we knew our minds were all set on the same goal.

  But I’m racing ahead. When I got to the farm and told Fletcher I had left home he said he knew, or rather, he had been thinking of me all day, sensing a disturbance around me, knowing I had come to a rope bridge over a chasm. And he was right, that was what it had felt like, crossing a chasm on a rope bridge. He took both my hands and held them for a moment. I knew I had made the right decision. I had come home.

  When Fletcher suggested I be initiated fairly soon, the breath was taken out of me. The White Ones recommend at least six months as an observer before commitment. Bea was scheduled to be initiated ahe
ad of me. Now I would be a White One before her. I realised once I agreed to set a date for my initiation, there would be no going back. But then what the hell? I had just left home. It amounted to the same thing. I told Fletcher I was ready. Things were set up for a week’s time.

  Now when I look back, the ceremony resolves itself into a series of snapshots. I remember the headache I had from the fasting, a box of tension above my eyes, and also how my emotions were all on the surface – I could have cried at the slightest provocation. Fletcher said that was part of the purification process. Your emotions rise to the surface so they can be expelled. It made sense. I felt as if everything was about to be – here are some words from a poem Bea quoted to me – “changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born.”

  I didn’t have any white boxers so I had to wear Y-fronts, which felt weird. But I was wrapped in a large white beach towel so that was OK. I handed Fletcher a photo of me, Mum, Dad and Gemma on the beach at Lido di Jesolo, taken a few summers ago. I watched him burn it in a white crucible. I reckoned it was only a photo, and what mattered was the symbolism – I was replacing one set of loyalties with another. I had spoken to my mum and it hadn’t been easy. I had to promise to meet her in town soon, just to put her mind at rest. It did seem strange, watching this photo, which I used to come across from time to time in my desk, leaping into flames, curling, transforming to white ash in front of my eyes.

  Next I remember the immersion. One impure thought escaped me, which was that I was worried the water would be cold. And if it was, would they know from my reaction that I thought it was? Here’s the amazing thing. The water was cold and yet I welcomed it. Something above and beyond me took away the usual reactions of my body and I could do it, immerse myself fully in the water, tingling sensations of hot and cold all confused, holding my breath under the water and counting, one elephant two elephant three elephant as I did when I was young to make sure I was counting proper seconds – until fear and exhilaration rushed through me and I forgot whether I’d reached thirteen or fourteen. I found myself rushing up for air, freezing cold and then the cheers and applause from all the guys. Nick threw me my towel and I felt like I’d run a marathon. The girls came in then and they all touched my forehead, which seemed to fill with light and gladness.