Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  ‘I would have imagined your philosophy to be more concerned with matters of the spirit than with bodily ills, Kumar.’

  ‘If a man lies wounded by a poisoned arrow he does not seek to know who shot it, or its length, or what it is made of. First he requires the poison to be extracted and to be made well. We must face what is before us, as it is; only by direct and personal experience do we learn, not by evading it.’

  ‘Some of us learn too late. What good is the lesson then?’

  ‘Self-pity is a most corrosive force, Mr Cawdor.’ The Indian gently released his arm. ‘It rots the will and destroys our ability to achieve good karma. It must be resisted.’

  ‘Is that what ails me?’ Cawdor asked moodily. Sour bile curdled within him. ‘You think I feel nothing but self-pity?’

  ‘No. You also feel grief, remorse, sadness, a sense of injustice, and the desire for revenge. But self-pity you cannot afford. It corrupts every thought, blights every action.’

  Satish Kumar suddenly smiled.

  ‘There is a way forward. Not only in this life, Mr Cawdor, but in the next, and the one after that. There are innumerable lives.’

  ‘Your faith is not mine,’ Cawdor reminded him.

  ‘We are all of the one universe.’

  ‘But if I don’t believe…’

  Satish Kumar shrugged. ‘You may not know that you believe. The important thing is to tread the right path. The Noble Eightfold Path, as I remember telling you.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Eight steps, which are Right Understanding, Right Thoughts, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Means of Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Concentration, and Right Meditation. The path is not unique to the Buddhist belief. Other people in other cultures have recognised its virtues. Your English dramatist William Shakespeare expressed the same philosophy, in different terms, in his play Hamlet. “This above all. To thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.”’

  ‘You spoke of karma and rebirth. Tell me about those.’

  ‘Karma means simply a person’s actions or deeds. These are causes which give rise to effects. Your great scientist Isaac Newton expressed it in his Third Law of Motion: that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. As in the material world, so it is in the lives of men. The universe itself is an effect of our actions upon it. Each separate, discrete part affects all the other parts. We are all integral and interdependent, one with another. Or, as Buddhism would have it, the karma of one is the karma of all.’

  ‘Then my actions affect everyone and everything,’ Cawdor said, struggling to understand.

  Kumar nodded. ‘And the actions of everyone and everything else affect you. Further – and as stated by Newton’s Third Law – the consequences of your own actions will react upon you, via the universe, with commensurate force. You cannot escape them, whether you go to the ends of the earth or to the depths of the sea.’

  ‘And rebirth? Is it a literal fact in your religion that after death we are reborn?’

  ‘The body, of course, ceases to exist at death. But the karma of the individual does not die. It is passed on.’ Satish Kumar paused, frowning a little. ‘Such a concept is hard for you to grasp, I understand that. Imagine a lighted candle passing its flame to another candle. The old candle is discarded but the light lives on: the same and yet different. The essence of Jefferson Cawdor, his karma, does not die with the death of his body. It lights another candle, and another, and another. Innumerable candles.’

  ‘Towards what end? Is there a purpose to this endless lighting and relighting of candles? Where does it lead us?’

  ‘If we faithfully follow the Noble Eightfold Path; ’Satish Kumar explained, ‘we finally achieve nirvana, which is the state of supreme enlightenment. This is beyond anything you or I have experienced, or will experience in this lifetime. It is a casting off of the self, the ego, so that we no longer regard ourselves as separate, but become one with all things, merging with the cosmic dance. To attain it, having traversed the Noble Eightfold Path, means we have mastered and overcome the weaknesses of the flesh, all selfish craving, all the intoxications and hindrances which tempt and frustrate us. This is nirvana, the state of blessedness, the end of woe.’

  ‘That isn’t possible. Not for me. Never.’ Cawdor’s eyes were cold and brutal. ‘My total being aches to end Kershalton’s life by the most painful means I can conceive. To see him die in agony would bring me the most glorious, thrilling satisfaction.’

  The yellow lamplight flickering across Kumar’s smooth, impassive features gave his skin the quality of fine, supple kid leather, without a wrinkle or a blemish.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Cawdor uttered a harsh laugh. The laugh seemed to stick in his throat. It turned into a choking sob. ‘Because the future has become a black void. Kershalton and the Shouters have done for me.’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘You say no man can escape the consequences of his own actions – what of their actions against me? Against my wife and son? Let me see this cosmic retribution you speak of strike them down. Then your philosophy will make common sense – to me, now, in this life, not the next!’

  Satish Kumar shook his head sadly. ‘You have not understood, Mr Cawdor. Causes and their effects do not turn full circle in the span of a single lifetime. A man’s life is but a raindrop in the vast ocean of time.’

  Cawdor wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘I see. I must wait for the candleflame to be passed on to eternity, must I, before the account is settled?’

  ‘There will be no settling of accounts, ever, if you maintain your existing state of mind.’ The Indian grasped Cawdor by the shoulder. ‘Do you hear me? Please listen carefully. The chain of karma – of cause and effect – will never be broken, Mr Cawdor, unless you decide to break free of it. It will repeat itself, and continue to repeat itself, a perpetual cycle of events to which you are bound, as feeble and helpless as an ant, for evermore. But understand: this is not Nemesis, or fate, or destiny, or providence. A man writes his own destiny by his own thoughts and actions. That which is yet to be depends on the deeds now being done. The future is not wrought in stone, or at the whim of God, or the gods. There is within you the power to break free, to sever the links of the chain, if only you will realise that it binds you.’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Cawdor replied dully. ‘What I see before me is a black void. There is no future to be written, by me, the gods, or by blind destiny. The candleflame is snuffed out.’

  ‘It cannot be.’ This was uttered quietly and calmly, not as a contradiction, but as a simple statement of fact. ‘Your body was born; therefore it will one day die, as will mine. But the spirit of karma is immortal. It cannot be destroyed by an act of will. It has been passed on to you, for this brief mortal span, and in turn you will pass it on to your future selves. You cannot obliterate the future; it is inside you, waiting to be brought into being.’

  Cawdor stared into the blackness. Almost against his will he found the Indian’s words comforting. But he didn’t want to be comforted; he rejected their comfort, because he didn’t deserve it. He deserved to be where he was; it was his rightful due, left here to rot. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  ‘These people,’ Satish Kumar said, ‘the ones who call themselves the Shouters…’

  ‘Yes.’ Cawdor dragged his thoughts back from the abyss. ‘What of them?’

  ‘They too possess a karma, which lives on, is passed on. They are an equal and opposite force which must be resisted. They are known by many names. In the past I have heard them called the Messengers of the Fall from Grace. Now they choose to call themselves the Shouters. In the future it will be something else.’

  The Indian’s eyes were very large and glistening. As he looked into them Cawdor found himself suddenly wondering how Kumar had been able to get past the seaman in the upper hold. A bribe? But Kumar wasn’t a wealthy man by any means – he was travelling steerage. And i
t would have taken a considerable sum for the seaman to disobey the captain’s orders and risk a flogging.

  ‘I told you once, Mr Cawdor, that men of good faith must do what they can to oppose the forces of evil. A balance has to be kept, or else everything is chaos.’

  ‘You’ve chosen a poor disciple, Kumar.’ Cawdor smiled bleakly. ‘A defective candle to carry the flame. My “good faith” as you call it has less effect on such grand schemes than a stream of gnat’s piss.’

  ‘No – forgive me – you are quite wrong. By his smallest positive action a man can raise himself, however little, above his own personal failings. And, because he is part of the whole, that too is lifted, and made greater, as a consequence of his actions. No contribution is too small or insignificant.’

  ‘What if the man is unworthy? What if he feels his contribution is less than insignificant? Indeed, less than nothing?’

  ‘No man is unworthy, Mr Cawdor. He has the freedom to choose which path to follow. Shall it be the path towards self-deceit, darkness, pandering to his own petty cravings, the indulgence of his selfish ego? Or is it the path towards enlightenment? Man is man because he knows good from evil. He is unique in this respect. He knows the difference and has the power to choose between them. You, Jefferson Cawdor, have that power. How will it be used? Foolishly or wisely?’

  From a leather pouch at his waist, Satish Kumar produced a small bundle of cloth, and held it in the pale slender palm of his hand.

  In spite of himself, Cawdor felt a stirring of curiosity.

  ‘The paths towards nirvana are many. Each man must decide for himself the most suitable one to take.’ Kumar held out the little bundle. ‘Here. In these fragments you will see the choices that lie before you. Take them.’

  ‘What is this? Witchcraft?’

  ‘You say you have no future. Here are many futures – rather, each splintered piece contains a reflection of the whole future seen anew from a different perspective.’

  Cawdor opened the bundle. Shards of broken mirror lay on the ragged square of cloth, casting myriad splintered reflections which dazzled the eye. He could see nothing but light.

  Then, to his surprise, Satish Kumar chuckled softly, and Cawdor felt he had been tricked. ‘I see nothing here. Just a broken mirror and a hundred bright distortions –’

  ‘Quite so. The pieces of mirror reflect nothing until they are observed. I shall leave you to observe them, Mr Cawdor.’

  The Indian rose to his feet. His tall, thin shadow was thrown across the bulkhead. Cawdor stared up, bewildered and disbelieving. The trap door was shut. There was no ladder.

  ‘Remember,’ Satish Kumar said, raising a finger. ‘Each piece contains the whole, and also a fragment of the whole. What you will see in each fragment is a singular version of events to come, all equally possible, all equally plausible.’

  ‘But you said that the future cannot be foretold. A man writes his own destiny by his own thoughts and deeds.’

  ‘That is true. What the fragments reveal are the infinite possibilities that await you. Observe each fragment closely. One of them will lead you on the path to nirvana.’

  Kumar smiled and raised his hand in farewell.

  His shadow on the bulkhead thinned. It became a single black line, and when Cawdor examined it more closely he saw that he was looking at nothing more than a thin caulked gap in the deck planking above his head.

  But the lamp was there, next to him on the gravel heap. The cloth was spread in front of him, still, the bright shards glinting like a pile of cheap trinkets.

  Cawdor smoothed the cloth with his hand. There was something written there. Bending over it, he strained to read the words in the dim, wavering glow.

  ‘Behold in this shatter’d mirrour all your past and future times.’

  Not time singular. Times. Infinite possibilities.

  Handling the sharp, jagged edges with extreme care, Cawdor picked up one of the tiny fragments and held it up to the light.

  7

  From prow to stern the decks were crowded, the forward rails packed tight with expectant, exuberant faces. Seamen clambered into the rigging and cheered. Some of the passengers wept with relief and fell to their knees to thank the Almighty, while others joined together to sing His praises.

  29 October 1774.

  After eleven weeks and three days at sea, the New World sighted at last!

  The cry from the crow’s nest of ‘Land Ahoy!’ came a few minutes after midday, though it wasn’t until an hour later that the hazy brown smudge that was the coastline of North Carolina became visible to the unaided eye of those on deck.

  A cask of rum was breached and, with the exception of the Methodists and others of a strict religious persuasion, everyone on board drank more than a measure or two. Even Captain Vincent accepted the beaker offered to him by Mr Tregorath, and toasted his officers and crew. A fiddle player struck up; jigs were danced; women kissed; children hugged; backs were slapped; and the general air of carousing swept through the ship until it seemed that the Salamander, buoyed up on rum and other high spirits, was skimming along ten feet above the waves.

  For the moment, no one gave a thought to the rumours of civil unrest and even outright rebellion by the colonists. Only one blessed thing mattered. Soon they would be rid of this cursed salty capricious domain (better left to the fishes, and welcome) and have both feet planted, God be praised, on the terra firma of their new homeland.

  The continent of America!

  Gilbert Gryble stood on the quarterdeck, alongside Mr Paine. They had shaken hands and wished one another well, but were now silent, wrapped in their thoughts, watching the revelry on the lower decks.

  The sum was hot, and Gryble’s head swam a little from the liquor, which he wasn’t used to. The ship was now sailing parallel to the land, on their port side, and every time Gryble looked at it he felt a nervous shivering in his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. He hadn’t expected it to appear so foreign and exotic. They had sailed for miles along the coast and not seen a single settlement or habitation. In his mind’s eye he had pictured bustling seaports and neat little towns, roads, smoke curling from farmhouse chimneys, cultivated fields, all spread out and set apart; in other words England on a slightly enlarged scale. But this was bigger and emptier – vaster – than he had ever imagined.

  It was a wilderness, in fact. And there were red savages in it, seven feet tall, with painted faces. Gryble began to wonder if he hadn’t made a serious error of judgement. Would there be much need of a cosmographer here?

  He couldn’t help thinking about Cawdor, though he tried hard to avoid it. Too many violent emotions twisted his stomach into knots. He couldn’t recall ever feeling such rage, such bitterness. The dreadful injustice of what Cawdor had suffered left him in a state of tortured emptiness and impotence, like a wrung-out dish rag.

  He couldn’t think of Saraheda and Daniel at all. No, not at all. He simply couldn’t. His heart came up into his gullet and choked him, and he started weeping and couldn’t stop.

  Kershalton guzzled down another cup and reeled backward against the foremast, giggling and dribbling like a madman. Six Fingers made a grab to save him from falling, and Kershalton swatted him aside, mumbling, ‘Gerrout from under me feet, yer freak bastard son of a whore.’ He belched and farted at the same time. ‘Lemme be. Lemme be. Gerrus a drink.’

  He straightened up, head wobbling, using his arm as a prop against the foremast, and turned slowly to look towards the landward side of the ship. Why wouldn’t the bastard coastline stay still? First it tilted one way and then the other. Stay still, bastard. Let me take a good gander at you.

  ‘Thas North Calorina,’ he told Six Fingers, pointing. ‘North Caranalina. Canalrina. Oh fuck it. Thas where we’re goin’. Over there. An’ we’ll be gentlemen. Anythin’ we want we can ‘ave.’ He swept his hand out expansively. ‘Any fuckin’ thing. For services rendered. Payment is due us, Sam, m’lad. An’ we’ve earned it. We ‘ave earned it.’r />
  He tried to strut about, and ended up staggering.

  ‘Money to burn. Here you are, my good man. Think nothing of it. Another bottle, landlord. Make it two. And your fittest wench. One with bosoms out to here.’

  ‘Some more grog, Franklin.’ Six Fingers held up the brimming cup.

  Kershalton aimed for his mouth, and on the way spilt half of it down his shirt. He drained what was left and flung the cup away.

  He squinted with one bleary eye at the group in the middle part of the ship. The Shouters stood in their long grey robes, hands clasped devoutly, gazing into the middle distance. As Kershalton watched them, Elder Graye slowly turned his head and looked directly at him. Their eyes met.

  Kershalton grinned, and winked with his dead eye.

  In the boisterous and happy tumult on board, no one observed this exchange, except for one person.

  On the upper deck, the Spanish Woman stood apart from the rest, watching with cool, green, gold-flecked eyes. A faint curve of a smile touched her lips, shadowy as a brushstroke.

  She didn’t flinch, or lower her gaze, when the shaven, knoblike head of Elder Graye rotated in her direction and he fixed her with a piercing stare from eyes deep-set beneath the bony ridge of his brow.

  He continued to stare at her, brutally, like an act of physical penetration, and she returned it, coolly, almost mockingly, unintimidated.

  Abruptly, Elder Graye snapped his head away, and appeared to take a sudden interest in the coastline. At that precise moment, as circumstance would have it, the ship altered tack and began to veer to port, the sails filling with a warm southerly breeze as the Salamander headed for landfall.

  JOURNEY INTO LIGHT

  1

  A soft tapping on the door awakened Sarah. Drowsily, she raised her tousled head to find herself lying in a king-sized bed under a single sheet of black silk. The heavy drapes were partially open, a blinding shaft of sunlight making the rest of the room dim and shadowy. Through the closed sliding windows which gave access to the brick-paved patio she could hear the faint lisp of the ocean. Then, like a pack of quarrelsome children, sea gulls set up a chorus of ugly, raucous cries as they swooped over the house.