The sound of a voice cut through the avenue of trees. ‘Ten.’
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got ...’ I turned around and sprinted back towards the clearing. I could hear the stag running beside me.
‘Nine.’
‘Long but I’ll come back.’
‘Eight.’
‘Soon, I promise, I’ll.’
‘Seven.’
‘Meet you here, I’ll.’
‘Six.’
‘Look for you.’
‘Five.’
‘Goodbye.’
My eyes flicked open and I found myself back in Vivienne’s living room. Scott sat cross-legged in front of me, smiling.
‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘Not long enough, but amazing. Where is it?’
‘The dream world, but it’s as real as this one.’
‘I felt it. I want to go back,’ I told him.
‘You can go back any time you want, but I’m asking you to wait. Let us do this together, at least at first, please.’
I nodded. ‘When?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he promised.
Tomorrow seemed too far away, but I agreed. I offered him a drink, but he told me he had another appointment, made his apologies and left, but not before promising to return the following day at eleven.
Twenty hours stretched out in front of me like a desert highway, its shape distorted in the heat haze. Exhilaration from my psychic journey still made me shiver and I wiped sweat from the back of my neck. I realised how much I missed the stand-offs between police and comrades, the state and the people. No other feeling came close. It was as though everything else was hibernation and I only truly came alive when fighting for my beliefs, my rights and those of others. It was a drug to me and I felt the sting of withdraw. I wondered how to fill this soulless day and considered returning to Vivienne’s diaries, but I wouldn’t read more about my granddad, I couldn’t. Perhaps I could uncover a written account of my mother’s experiences of shamanism and see how closely they echoed my own, or I could check whether I could find any mention of my sister.
I opened my bag and felt inside. The house seemed empty without Scott there and the air was quiet as if the building was holding its breath. I hoped Scott’s smudging worked and the spirits were calm. I pulled out the books and placed them on the grimy kitchen table. I hadn’t realised before how dirty the kitchen had become. I hastily returned the books to the backpack, not wanted to soil them, and searched for a cloth. This was not a squat; it was a home. A saying replayed in my head as I dampened a dishcloth. “You can take the anarchist out of the squat, but you can’t take the squat out of the anarchist.” I decided it was time I challenged that thought - squatting was necessary sometimes, a means to an end, but not a style I wanted to emulate always. By the time I had finished cleaning, the kitchen sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight.
After the quick reward of lungs-full of nicotine, I claimed the vacuum cleaner from a cupboard and started work in the living room. When I had finished the ground floor it was evening and I felt exhausted. My muscles burned, but a sense of calm settled over me, not unlike the sensations I experienced after a large protest or a riot. I smiled, content at last.
Before I could settle I heard my stomach grumble. I grabbed food and shovelled it into my mouth. The window was no longer able to capture natural light, so I sat in the growing gloom, contemplating. I no longer felt afraid. A profound sense of calm assured me I had almost reached the end of my journey. I wondered about Tomas and Vivienne’s will and what might happen, but the question held no fear and didn’t keep my interest for long. I considered phoning my brother, but decided to wait until morning, opting for an early night instead. As I rambled up the stairs my eyes wandered over pictures of my mother. They no longer judged me. I could almost hear Vivienne cheer me onward, desperate for me to win this race.
The physical exertion of housework had made me sticky with sweat and I wanted to bathe. The house seemed peaceful; there were no creaks or groans, no sign of anything otherworldly so I decided to take the chance and ran some hot water and oils into the tub. The smell reminded me of the woodland I had visited in my trance and I had to force myself to keep my eyes open as I soaked my aching limbs in the warm water. Nothing attacked me as I lay there resting and my confidence grew. I felt certain Scott’s smudging had done the trick and cleared the place of all its bad memories at least for tonight.
As I walked naked from the bathroom to my bedroom I felt no invisible eyes upon me, watching me, waiting to strike. Shapes no longer lurked in every shadow. Without dressing, I settled into bed and read until my eyes could no longer resist their tug-of-war game with slumber.
In my dream, I walked through the forest, one of my hands draped over the shoulder of my stag, feeling its taut muscles shift as it moved. I had no idea where we were headed, but it didn’t matter as the stag led the way. Gaps between the trees widened and the canopy opened to welcome the soft blue sky as we journeyed closer to its edge. Beyond the limits of bark and leaves I saw a purple mountain. As we left the woodland behind, the stag held back. I looked at its face, confused, but its eyes urged me to continue onward. At the base of the mountain a deep pool of green water reflected a snowy summit. I dipped a toe into warm water and looked at the welcoming pool then the menacing mountain before diving downwards.
36
I woke refreshed, stretched my limbs and sat up. My body jolted back as if I had stuck wet fingers into an electrical socket. In the dawn light I saw a dark shape, someone sitting at the end of my bed.
‘Mum?’ I asked.
The black haired figure started to turn around slowly and a pale ear poked between thick locks then the tip of a delicate nose and dark eyelashes were revealed. I held my breath and the face stopped turning.
‘No,’ I whispered.
As if answering my dismissal, the figure vanished. My body ached and I reached toward the space the phantom had occupied. No sense of the interloper remained and I felt both relieved and disappointed. I cursed my haste in telling it to go. Reluctantly, I picked up my clothes to get dressed and realised how badly they stank. I couldn’t remember the last time I had washed them, not even my underwear. I bundled them up and walked naked into the kitchen. After studying the washing machine for a few minutes, I used a setting I hoped was right. Mesmerised by the tumbling laundry, I sat watching the porthole with a hot drink and cigarette. I glanced at the time - seven o’clock, plenty of time for my washing to dry. The morning sun warmed my skin as clothes pegs and wet linen weighed down my arms. I stood surrounded by the high walls and hedges that cut the garden off from the rest of the world. Even so, I felt eyes studying my flesh and glanced nervously around the garden. I hurried inside. My uncovered skin made me feel vulnerable so I raked through Vivienne’s wardrobe and chose a black cotton blouse and a gypsy style skirt. The skirt had probably been mid-calf length on Vivienne, but brushed the floor as I walked around the bedroom. Catching a glimpse in the mirror, I laughed. My bald head paired with such a feminine outfit looked comical and I felt as though I was wearing drag, but it was better than being naked.
Eight o’clock - would Tomas be awake yet? He wouldn’t phone me this early of course and I felt too nervous to dial his number. My growing interest in the contents of my mother’s will disturbed me and I wondered why I should care. I decided to force myself to wait until he contacted me. If he didn’t call today I would phone tomorrow and ask about the funeral arrangements and the will.
Only three hours until Scott was due to arrive and I could hardly wait to visit my dream world again. Of course I could try to go there alone, Scott told me it was possible, but he also asked me to wait. For once, I felt like doing as I was asked.
My larder was full, the ground floor of the house was clean and my washing hanging on the line; I had fulfilled every household duty I could imagine. Strangely, these things felt like huge achievements and my mind reached for other things I might do as well. My hollow p
ride made me uncomfortable, none of it really meant anything I argued to myself, fearing I might lose focus on what was actually important. In London ... well at this time of day, I would probably still be sleeping but, when I woke up, what would I be doing? Most days I’d sketch tourists’ portraits for coins, but I didn’t need the money now and there was plenty left to sell when the watch fund ran out. In London, if a protest was planned I would, of course, join my comrades-in-arms. I felt ashamed I hadn’t yet approached political movements in Bristol. The city was famous for its anarchist movement. How could I become so easily distracted? I realised there wouldn’t be enough time before Scott arrived, but I promised myself I would search out the local activists if I planned to stay longer in this city; I needed the violent reality of a struggle to ground me. It felt too quiet, surreal almost, without the shouting of slogans, the standing arm-in-arm and the throwing of missiles at hostile targets. I needed friends, needed to be useful. Loneliness washed over me, I had nothing but ghosts to keep me company in this big, old house.
Eight-fifteen – time crawled by and I decided to sketch the garden and included, in the picture, my Nanny digging the vegetable patch and me as a child beside her, playing with worms. I became absorbed in my work. Smudges of graphite darkened my skin as thoroughly as they marked the paper.
The doorbell broke my reverie at eleven-fifteen. I hid my drawing in a cupboard and went to greet Scott, pushing the awkward memory of that humiliating night aside. The beauty of my dream world was all I needed from him. He returned my smile and stepped inside, pulling his heavy bag after him. I led him into the living room and we spread out the mat together.
‘How do you smudge?’ I asked.
‘I’m just burning some sage. The smoke cleanses the room. Did it work? Was it peaceful?’
‘I think so.’ The smoke hung heavily in the air, but as it dispelled the room did feel more welcoming.
‘They’re still here,’ I said.
An arcing movement of his head informed me he didn’t understand.
‘The ghosts, they’re still here, but they’re behaving themselves at the moment.’
He nodded. ‘Maybe they always will be. Maybe you’re not ready to let them go. That’s okay though. It really is - the ancient tribes co-existed with their dead ancestors and learned from them.’
‘Were they ever drowned by them?’ I asked.
‘Probably not,’ he conceded. ‘Do you want them gone?’
‘To be honest I don’t know.’
I sat on the mat and crossed my legs, placing my hands, palms up, on my thighs while Scott lit candles around me. I started counting. When I opened my eyes I was in my woodland grove. An oak tree stretched its limbs towards the blue sky above. Its pale bark felt warm to my touch as I embraced it and felt its ancient power course through my body.
Faster this time, I moved onwards. My stag joined me at the start of the path. I stroked its neck and kissed its nose then we walked together towards the mountain.
‘I have to go up,’ I said. ‘I have things I need to find. I cannot play in the water. Not today.’
The stag nodded with movements so graceful they made me cry. I let warm saline wash my cheeks, feeling no shame. The lake and mountain came into view. The mountain was so high its apex was hidden by clouds. The sides looked sheer and slippery, too difficult to climb. The stag wandered around its base and I followed the animal until, at the far side of the mountain, I found foot and hand holds perfect for my height. Thanking my guide, I started to ascend into the chill air. I did not shiver, but instead, gripping the rock-face tightly, I climbed neither looking down nor up. I inched my way higher until my face was surrounded by cloud and water droplets tickled my skin. I kept concentrating on the foot and hand holds, knowing I was almost there.
My eyes rose above clouds that seemed to make a plateau solid enough to walk across. The mountain reached further up, but I was convinced these clouds would support my weight. Heart beating fast, I let go of the mountain with one trembling hand and reached across. My fingers did not sink into the cloud so I climbed higher and tried again, with a foot this time. Solid whiteness beneath me, I took a deep breath and stepped off the mountain, half-expecting to plummet to the ground below. With each step I gained confidence and moved further from the peak, rationalising - of course I wouldn’t fall through, this was my dream-self and I weighed nothing here. But the magic of it was beyond rationalisation and adrenaline rushed through me, making me giddy with excitement.
I wondered what I had come here to find. I had told Scott I felt incomplete, as though I had lost some essential part of myself within the walls of Vivienne’s house. Perhaps I might find them here, those soul fragments or whatever they might be called? The perpetual whiteness was mind-bending and I searched for breaks in the monotony, however small. Finding one, at last, I walked towards it and found a ball of indigo energy, about the size of my head and perfectly spherical.
Energy crackled as I approached and it reminded me of a plasma ball I once saw in London but, around this sphere, twisted razor wire seemed to grow like ivy, organic and part of this place. I couldn’t reach past the barbs to touch the ball, but I felt certain it was my soul, protected from the world by defences that would strip flesh from the bone of any transgressor. I circled around it to view the other side and found, near the top, a wide and jagged gash. The torn section was a painful looking crimson and I guessed this was the piece I had lost or had been stolen from me. I winced as I stared at it - so much pain. I could hardly bear it. My body shook and tears fell.
Scattered around the sphere, some laying inert on the cloud-floor and others suspended in the air, were things I recognised from my childhood: roller-skates and dolls, Nanny’s gardening gloves, and my grandfather’s chair. Wondering where I should look first, I pressed my temples, trying in vain to shut out the painful screams of my wounded soul, knowing this was not a dream; it was real and I wanted to leave, run far away. Within moments I was far away, back on the woodland path. Ahead of me stood my oak tree and I sensed the mountain scowl at me from far, far behind, frustrated by my fear and indecision. The stag stood beside me, licking tears from my cheeks.
‘Shit.’ I turned around, ready to head back towards the mountain, but the branches of the trees echoed with the sound of Scott’s voice.
‘Ten.’
‘I saw it,’ I told the stag. ‘I found my soul.’
‘Nine.’
‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’
‘Eight.’
‘Goodbye,’ I called as the wood faded around me.
Scott sat on the rug in front of me. ‘Are you okay? You were shaking. You seemed frightened.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I want to go back.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he promised.
‘Do you have to rush off again?’
‘No, not today. Why? Do you want me to stay?’
I breathed noisily through my nose, and looked at him. ‘Look, I know the other night was a mistake. I’m sorry.’
He turned away, but not far enough to prevent me seeing the edge of his cheek flush. ‘It takes two to ... Look it wasn’t your fault. I just wish ...’
Poor Scott. Like Eve, I took the blame for what had happened onto my own shoulders without considering an alternative. ‘Me too.’
When he turned towards me again he had managed to control the colour of his cheeks. I sat and watched him as he marched around the living room, shaking out his limbs. Maybe my stare made him feel uncomfortable because he kept glancing down at me then turning away again.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said, eventually.
I pushed myself to my feet. My muscles protested at the sudden movement and I felt much older than the caged animal before me.
‘I’ll make lunch,’ I said, but really I wanted him to go so I could be alone with this feeling of fragility, let it roll about on my tongue and juggle it between my hands. I held open the fridge door, inhaled the odours of food then gathered together sal
ad leaves and hummus and carried them across to the kitchen table.
‘So tell me about these diaries,’ Scott said through a mouth full of hummus.
I touched the skin beside my own lips to wipe away a mirrored smear on Scott’s face, but he didn’t notice. I shrugged, not bothering to tell him. ‘I’ve only just started reading them, but from what I’ve seen so far they seem to cover the worst parts of Vivienne’s life. I don’t know whether I’ll carry on. Some of it I ... well I don’t wanna know. I guess I’m kinda scared what more I might find. And ...’
‘What, Crow.’ He stared at me, as if trying to read the answer in my eyes.
‘And ... the ghosts; they move about when I’m reading the diaries. I can hear them outside my bedroom door.’
‘Even now?’
‘Yes. There’s things in there ... darkness ... something happened to me, to Vivienne, to all of us. I think I know what it was, but at the same time I don’t want to know. Would you want to know if your grandfather abused you?’
He shook his head. ‘If you think they’re important, do you want me to read them for you?’
I stopped chewing and stared into his blue eyes. Some of the entries would be about him. Would his eyes lose their sparkle if he read them? I shook my head, the diaries were for me; Vivienne asked me to read them and I would, as soon as I felt ready.
The Ballerina and the Revolutionary Page 15
