In the morning the child notices, reaches out to touch but she pushes her hand firmly away. She avoids her questioning gaze, draws deeply on this new authority and they move on. Her father, her brothers are with her now once more and at her shoulders again.
But what of the child’s father? Where is he now? For all her determination to forget, she sees him each time she looks into her daughter’s eyes. What more might they have exchanged, what more might she have learned from him? How might he have found and fed the softness in her, now all but gone.
She recalls how her mother and father had been with each other, their looks, their quarrels soon forgiven, their care for each other. Not all pairings were so blessed, she understood this, she had seen some couplings come and go, had seen the bruises of the battles to mate in other members of her clan. She had witnessed the fear of those left alone, whether by death or choice or theft. And then there were those other times, during the gatherings, those forgiven nights of the year under certain moons when pairs might be permitted to separate and find another for only a few hours, if all were willing, if all agreed. Not every pair took this path, but for some it was a way to feed a threatening hunger, or to welcome fresh seed into a bond that had been unable to bring new life to birth.
But she had always believed it would be her destiny to have what her parents had enjoyed, she had been determined to settle for nothing less, to resist any attempt at a trade between tribes, unless it suited her. She knew her gifts were valued above many things, and she knew she might bring good to her band if she agreed to an advantageous match with a long beard, or his son, or with a water talker or a herd runner. But she had known also that she would never be forced. She knew that she channelled a different kind of force that must be free to flow, could not be coerced.
Perhaps she had taken advantage of that, perhaps her brothers (those whose company she has pined for since) were right to resent her pride. And would this pride have tainted her own attempts at partnership? Would she have tired of the one with the sunburnt hair, would he have tired of her? Could he have looked away from her faults and she from his? But these things are beyond answer now and pointless to ponder. She knows that she must find and sharpen the flint within her own blood once more. No more dreams of softness.
11
Eloise finished her last call at the Samaritans for the foreseeable future and joined the others in the Phoenix. This gathering was a necessary ritual to rinse away the sorrow that lingered long after the phones were put down, and many a thirsty pint after an evening shift had led to easy, good-natured debate, in particular with John. Tonight turned out to be no exception. Eloise was unclear how she and John had formed their tight huddle of theological ping pong (despite his strictly ‘civilian’ identity when on Samaritan duty) but she always enjoyed a one-to-one with the only man of god she knew personally, no matter the topic.
‘Look, John, I fully recognise that people can benefit from the practices of stillness and the soothing brain waves these can induce, or from a comforting sense of communion with others, or a sense of connection to something greater. We are a kind of hive mind after all. And yes, OK, the core of most faiths does contain some sensible guidance for happy or healthy co-existence. But I’m sorry, John, far too much horror, exploitation and madness has been done in ‘His’ name. I mean, come on, the arrogance, the intolerance…’
John countered with typically fur-lined incision.
‘Indeed, Eloise, indeed. Though I am not sure that religion has the monopoly on arrogance or intolerance?’
‘Of course, yes,’ she conceded. ‘Politics, tribalism, the market economy, even some factions of academia can all be guilty of hard-line dogma. But that doesn’t mean we should remain enslaved to the violent and dysfunctional history of some displaced desert tribe! Or of any historical people who were seeking to make sense of their troubles and establish a moral superiority over their oppressors.’
‘But there’s so much more to the Bible than that, Eloise. Parts of it are sublimely beautiful, an exquisite love song to the divine with so much deep wisdom. And in the New Testament, the teachings of Christ are all about moving on, about peace and forgiveness,’ insisted John.
‘Hm…’ Eloise was undecided about the Jesus story. Was it merely a useful amalgamation of ancient religious myths or figureheads? Campfire folktales adapted to make ‘the one god’ more loving and forgiving than had been his habit… perhaps so his luckless followers could feel more valued or more hopeful, or be kept more docile and compliant. Or was it rooted in a real history, in the pacifist mission of a more enlightened teacher and healer of the time? Either way, she did not deny the nuggets of beauty, wisdom and compassion she found at the heart of his attributed preachings.
‘OK,’ she replied, as kindly as she could, ‘maybe some of those fusty old fairy tales have worked well enough, for want of anything better, as instructive allegory if you will – or as psychological archetypes to guide the human journey, but do we really need them anymore, and in that form?’
‘Maybe they contain more than rules and regulations, Eloise, maybe there are hidden codes and answers in the sacred texts – of many religions – that we don’t yet fully recognise?’
‘Oh, come on, John,’ Eloise was incredulous, a little disappointed that he had taken this turn. ‘That sounds like fantasy to me, or the red herrings of conspiracy theories. Elaborate stories to frighten children. Entertaining perhaps, but they distract and seduce. I’d say some are even dangerous in the way that they dehumanise their supposed enemies. But what’s worse, they throw us off course from immediate solutions to immediate problems. I mean, seriously, how could any intelligent being dispute the scientific facts that are so clearly laid out before us? It’s a collective delusion. No, I’m sorry, your God holds us back now, John. All these insane crusades or jihads… all the disgusting political manipulation.’
‘Eloise, I completely agree that faith has too often been exploited in the name of unspeakable horror… or simply to turn a fast buck. And there is no greater sin or blasphemy than to commit murder in the name of God. I mean, if you want to kill, at least have the honesty to acknowledge its source in the base human urge for violence, whether that’s driven by rage, revenge, avarice, or even in defence. But don’t try to sanctify it with excuses.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Eloise dropped another shred on to the pile of torn-up beer mats in front of her. There had been times when she’d almost wished she was a smoker, or a ‘vaper’ as they had now become, such a useful diversion for the hands that had been ruler-rapped at school for doodling in the margins. She was vexed, but not at John. Not at the soft grey eyes that were the same shade as his steely quiff. Had he been a rock’n’roll fan in his youth, she wondered, perhaps in his days as a Cambridge undergrad? Eloise had often found solace in those eyes, as they smiled behind crinkly creases and saw deeper inside another person than most, eyes that took the time to look.
As a couple of their party decided to call it a night, John stood up to offer his trademark two-handed shake. Eloise swallowed the last mouthful of her now warm and flattening lager and looked back at John.
‘One more for the road?’ she asked.
‘Oh, go on. Just a half though, thanks.’
At the delightful old wood-panelled bar, and in the reflections of its etched mirror behind, Eloise surveyed the easy warmth all around her. There were times when she hated people, concurred with Sartre on the nature of hell, and times such as this when she felt bonded, forgiving, hopeful. Until, with a jolt, she remembered the violation of being hacked a few hours earlier at the lab. Who were they? And what had those cunning, track-covering bastards been after? Why had they gone after her?
Now, as she replayed that unpleasant threat (or invitation) from Proverbs to ‘Fear the Lord’ she recognised what had stimulated her irritation with such zealotry, but also realised she should moderate her tone for such a likeable moderate as John. Their bond, their mutual support mattered more than dogma
or dialectics. On the way back to their booth Eloise spilled some of the overfilled glasses, splashing the sticky froth on to her trainers, but neither this habitual clumsiness nor thoughts of the hacking attempt (which fortunately seemed to have reached no further than her own terminal) could change her mood. John stood up for a moment to relieve her of his drink.
‘Lovely, cheers.’
Each took a contemplative sip before returning to the theme.
‘You know, Eloise, Jesus was no fan of religious hypocrisy,’ John continued, keen to get to the heart of his point, ‘I feel he was trying to guide us to a more personal relationship with God and to the wisdom within, to the “Christ Consciousness” rather than the self-interested control of any hierarchy. Despite everything that may have been edited out or tacked on around it, his greatest message was only to Love. To treat others as you would be treated. And the day that we all wake up and realise that the “promised land” is not some arid hunk of real estate but rather a state of being, well, that will truly be the definition of rapture.’
‘I admire your optimism,’ Eloise offered with little conviction, but she was happy for him to carry on. The sound of his voice was soft, sweet and lyrical. She wondered briefly whether he sang and what glorious heights he might attain in chant or in choral harmony. No wonder he made such a ‘good’ Samaritan, she thought, that voice was a soothing balm. An anchor to salvation.
‘And I’m a great admirer of your calling, Eloise. For me, the enquiring mind embodies the gift of intelligence, the desire to understand and to make life better. I’d even admit to some admiration for the courage of the atheist. It’s a brave, if potentially desolate journey to live unguided by a greater power and rely entirely on your own resources. To recognise no reward for your actions beyond their own merit…’
He stopped to clear his throat and sip his cider, but Eloise knew he had more to offer and did not jump in.
‘… but the fact is, Eloise, this connection, this yearning for reunion with creation, it’s something that you feel, that you experience. And once you do there’s no turning back. Once you begin to access that bliss, that oneness, everything unfolds from there. Good behaviour comes naturally and the promise of heaven or the threat of hell becomes unnecessary as, in effect, you want to do nothing other than act from that place of compassion and understanding. And even along the rocky path towards all of this, you can’t deny people what they hold in their hearts, Eloise, what relieves them from isolation and separation. You can’t deny them hope.’
‘Perhaps not, but many of those same pilgrims would in turn deny humanity its freedom, its choices, its progress.’
‘Yes, but only those who are afraid. Fear is the most dangerous and destructive thing on this blessed earth, and my God is not one who demands fear, only love. And respect. Oh, and a little humility doesn’t hurt. The only true voice of God for me is the one which asks you not only to love, because that’s easy – but to love all of life – and such a love asks that you do no harm.’
‘First, do no harm. Well, yes, I can certainly relate to that!’
‘Ha, of course, yes, the Hippocratic oath! But even when so many of us do stumble, Eloise, even when we cannot help but cause some harm, there’s always a way back. For me, God is no more the kind of parent who would eternally punish his children than any one of us would. He, she, it, us… whatever form or non-form this force takes, asks only that we try to know and to feel it. And in seeking it come to better know and love ourselves, and everything within and around us.’
‘Which would be all very well, John, if every believer was like you. But these states of bliss and ecstasy you mention can be replicated in the laboratory – or even at the beginning of an epileptic fit! They’re neurological conditions, not divine. And this ‘force’ you mention, there’s never been any proof or measurable evidence that such an intelligence exists.’
‘Or that it doesn’t? What do they say? “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence”?’
‘Yes, but it’s unlikely there’ll ever be any convincing evidence, either way.’
John sighed, leaned back against the scuffed leatherette.
‘But does there need to be, Eloise? We each will be faced with our own “confirmation bias” in any of our experiences, will we not? And science cannot yet answer all our questions. Indeed, it usually raises as many as it solves. And it can be equally culpable of leading to terrible deeds. From the machinations of the big pharmaceutical companies to the arms race… or pollution, or eugenics… you name it.’
‘Oh, come on, John! Genius can’t be blamed for its discoveries, nor how they are used!’
‘And you can’t blame most well-meaning believers for the actions of a few fanatics. Or the greedy, or the angry or the power hungry. Take out the noisy fundamentalist cults, take out those only paying lip service and most people who go to church, or mosque, or synagogue, or temple, live in the simple hope that they and their families will be healthy and happy. They just want to try to lead good and meaningful lives.’
‘Yes, but so many belief systems or apparently “spiritual” experiences are too easily twisted to fuel those fundamentalist fires, John. They set up such corruptible frameworks for all of the bullshit.’
‘And we should also remember the role that peer pressure plays in any belief system, spiritual or cultural. Behaviour can spread rather like a disease. And some people hold on to their ignorance, because, after all, it’s all they have. The relief of certainty. The ease of slotting into their tribe, and letting go of all responsibility. Because this “living to your full potential” thing doesn’t feel available to many. And even if they felt they could reach for it, it’s too hard. Too lonely. There’s little worse to most humans than loneliness. And then, we should also consider how something as banal as the ego plays its part?’
Eloise looked down at her mini-mountain of shredded cardboard beer mats and re-arranged it.
‘Hm, you have a point. Yes, perhaps it’s less the sheep we should be angry with and more the self-interested shepherds. But believe me, John, I’m all too familiar with the evils of the ego.’
‘And you should give yourself a break, Eloise. Have as much compassion for yourself as you have for others. Forgiving oneself is as crucial as forgiving the “trespassers against us”. And it’s not as hard as it may seem at first, you know, intention is a very powerful and transformative thing. As is prayer.’
‘Well, actually, John, I do accept that paying attention to a problem, or applying some good will, or even the simple human touch can be intriguingly healing, but isn’t that just the positivity effect at work, the conscious or unconscious stimulation of beneficial biology? Of feeling cared for?’
In between sips, Eloise had inhaled a little froth and had to excuse herself for coughing before continuing, though she was both keen and apprehensive to do so. ‘… OK, so maybe… maybe, I will consider that something goes deeper. I could be academically lynched for indulging the kind of “spiritual” appropriation of theory that infuriates most scientists but then there’s still so much “weirdness” in what we see. I mean, all the mind-bending discoveries of sub-atomic physics, the changing behaviour of particles depending on the attention paid to them. Wave function that collapses on observation and particles that are entangled, or can be in two or more places at once…’
Eloise took a breath, nodded her willingness to negotiate.
‘So, yes, I suppose there might be some as yet not understood effect of intention or concentration. But if that’s the case, then that’s what we should be harnessing, without chaining it to stagnant religions. Or leaving it to modern day witch doctors to enrich themselves by packaging it up for sale! And crucially, any form of prayer or remote “therapy” if you like, should be applied only alongside all the other safe and proven medical tools at our disposal, it shouldn’t replace them. I see what you’re saying, John, but for me, the notion of traditional prayer is too bound up with closed mythologies. Too open to e
xploitation.’
‘Well. I’ll tell you what. You work in your way, Eloise, and I’ll work in mine.’
At which point the bell rang for last orders. John began to tell another anecdote to support his point of view and Eloise engaged with it, although she was also ready to draw the evening to a close, so gradually the conversation came to a natural end. But as she gathered her belongings John offered a postscript that stayed with her for some time afterwards, something that hung about her thoughts like an echo, if only because she understood its truth as keenly as the struggle to action it.
‘You know, Eloise, perhaps the best that any of us can do is to learn to live thankfully in the moment and love whatever is available to us.’
*
As her footsteps trace the skeleton of a dry riverbed, she sees the shapes of the rivulets where water had once found the easiest routes, how it had split and splintered the ground, over and over, finding and forming new pathways. Like the branches and twigs on a tree that have been stripped by winter. Like the veins in her arms, like those on a leaf, or the lungs of an animal. She has recognised this same pattern in so many things and understands that this is how the living earth moves and flows.
She recalls how as a child she would examine a feather or a flower and notice that its form would repeat itself, many times over, small and large. Now she realises that this is how one thing is passed to another. As the many mothers before have passed their memories to her, and perhaps to others like her. If there are any others left in the world like her?
Once she had been pleased to feel special but now it is a weight she would happily share. All this knowledge is hers alone to bear and yet sometime, somehow, it must be shared again, as the river springs back to life under the rain, forming its countless streams to return to the land and finally the sea. She must hold the wisdom, she must carry it forward.
Bone Lines Page 10
