Endless Time

by Frances Burke

  ‘You would be wise to retire early, my dear.’ The cool husky voice steadied her, as no doubt it was meant to do. Antony’s hand slipped under her arm, helping her to rise.

  What a picture of connubial bliss, she thought, acknowledging the wishes of the company for her to sleep well, and allowing herself to be led away. If Antony intended presenting to the world a new improved angle on his marriage, he was going about it the right way. Nothing could have been more solicitous than his manner for the past few hours. But it didn’t fool her. He was thinking about his precious family name. The minute she stepped out of line, she’d feel his whip.

  He left her at the door of her bedchamber, delivered into the hands of Lucy. Soon, tucked up before the fire in her nightgown she accepted the milk that the little maid had heated, then dismissed her. She wanted to think for awhile before sleeping. It had been a long day, and she needed to sort out her impressions and her options.

  The main point to emerge was her need for circumspection. She must do nothing to annoy the lord and master, or at least nothing that was likely to come to his ears. Amanda looked like being a true friend. Something about her inspired confidence – almost as though she really did understand what had happened to Karen, incredible as it seemed.

  Could she possibly know of someone who could help? Seers, sorcerers and psychics abounded in every generation, although, unfortunately, in this age there would have to be a distinct shortage of quantum physicists. Karen hardly knew into which area her problem fitted. But she’d proved one thing, that running away was not the answer. In this Georgian world, once you stepped out of your own milieu safety evaporated. For those without protection it was a dangerous place. So, like it or not, she needed the umbrella of Lady Caroline’s rank and family connections, and that meant playing the part, however distasteful it might be, until she found a way out.

  As usual, she spent the last few minutes before sleep thinking about Adele. What might she be doing now? Was it night back in her child’s time? Had she gone to her little bed unkissed, emotionally neglected, however well she might be in the physical sense? Humphrey’s notions on child rearing came closer to the Georgian ideal, and she ached to hold her baby in her arms and give her the love she desperately needed. She had to get her away from Humphrey. She had to be there in court when the case came up, or lose, by default, any hope of regaining custody.

  Her nails dug into her palms, creating a secondary pain, but they could not dislodge the misery of her own thoughts. Amanda was her best hope. She’d tackle her the moment she arrived.

  Overcome with weariness, she put down the cup, almost too sleepy to make it to the bed. Her head hit the pillow and she was out.

  *

  The fire had burned low and the room grown cold. Wind-driven sleet hissed against the windows, open just a crack because Karen had insisted. There was the sound of a key turning. Then the latch at the door lifted silently and a gap appeared. Very slowly it widened, until finally a shadow slipped through, closing the door behind.

  ‘So, my lady sleeps, as planned.’ The voice was no more than a whisper, yet it held a note of satisfaction. The shadow glanced at the empty milk glass beside the bed, and smiled, then glided to the windows, throwing them wide, and stepping hastily back to avoid the rush of ice-laden wind. A few steps more, and Karen lay in its path almost bare, her bedclothes trailing to the floor, her hair and nightgown already touched with frost.

  The shadow stood for a long time, contemplating the sleeper. There was no need for haste. Its purpose would be achieved some time while the house slept. And when the dawn came, and my lady was discovered, cold and stiff, without so much as a sheet to cover her, why, then it would be thought that her tottering mind had taken that final step, carrying her over into oblivion. And that would be the end of my fine lady. At last.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thursday, December 6

  Tom was feeling guilty. It was months since he’d caught up with the family news from his end. Rachel would be disappointed in him. So he sat at his office desk writing, in actual longhand, a letter that he knew she’d keep and treasure, and answer fully. Rachel had no truck with electronic mail; she wanted the real thing. The least he could do was oblige, even if months late.

  ‘Dear Sis,

  It was great to hear all your news, and I’m really pleased that kibbutz life agrees with you so well. You tell that great ox of a husband to take good care of you and Benjamin and Naomi. I’ll try and get out to see you sometime next year, but you know me, always taking on something extra because it looks interesting and a bit of a challenge. I’m pretty sure I was never meant to be a Jewish Papa, so you can stop all that scheming and plotting. I won’t come within a thousand miles of you if you’re planning to trot out some sweet little Israeli for me.

  To change the subject, last week I bought a painting. It’s definitely not the sort of thing I normally take to, and yet there’s a touch of Turner to it with that big whirling sky and the hint of gorges falling away into the depths. It’s the work of a new young artist, a Karen Courtney. I met her at the gallery showing a few nights back. Theo Sampson is promoting her work with unusual vigor, considering she’s a relative newcomer.

  There’s something a bit odd about her. She looked uncomfortable being dragged about and lionized by Theo, which is probably a sign of the girl’s common sense. However, I got the impression she wasn’t entirely happy about her work being on public exhibition. I suppose an artist can feel possessive in that way, although I have a feeling it’s more than that. She’s striking looking, but does her level best to disguise the fact with awful clothes and hair. (Who am I to talk? Phil says I’m like a 1914 Stutz Bearcat – which presumably means I’m shaggy and out of date, and certainly not a classic.)

  But, can this girl paint! I was astounded at her range. When I found Beyond and Within it struck a nerve. I had to have it. Strange title, yet it seems to suit. The picture itself is beyond description, formless and yet totally meaningful, to me, at least. What meaning, exactly? I don’t yet know. That’s half its charm. I’ll have to study the thing to work it out. I’ve hung it in my office, near me so I can study it at odd times during the day. It’s already making an impact on the patients. You wouldn’t believe!

  Phil and Carla Thornton are over visiting from the States. They’re full of batty ideas about the afterlife. I’d have thought they were both far too intelligent to get caught up in that sort of thing, but you never can tell. Since our post-grad work together, I haven’t seen all that much of Phil; yet I suppose he’s the closest friend I’ve got. It’s a pity, but the way he talks these days I’m wondering whether we’re even on the same wavelength any more.

  Not that I’m opposed to new discoveries; and I use hypnosis as a tool in therapy. But taking someone back into a supposed previous life is just a bit too radical for me. We’ve all come across examples of Jung’s synchronicities, and I accept the phenomenon of déjà vu. I’d be a fool not to admit that there’s a lot more to be discovered about the human psyche. I’ll even say that I had far more confidence in my diagnostic ability and ‘knew’ far more about psychological theory in the first years after graduation that I do now. Daily I’m astonished and humbled by the layers of mystery we uncover in the mind.

  However, I do deal in reality. I do not believe that we can cross the gap between our present reality and whatever existed before birth. I do not believe we have more than one existence upon this earth. I don’t want to believe it. Perhaps that’s a problem for me. Meanwhile, I work on with my disturbed kids who are having problems adjusting to this life. One thing at a time, say I.

  Cherry drops in occasionally to see how I am. Talk about a civilized arrangement! She and the beer baron even want me to spend a weekend down at their mansion; but I’m not that civilized. Besides, boredom can kill. There, now, I’ve come over all catty again. Strange, isn’t it? I don’t give a damn that Cherry’s remarried happily. I’m glad for her. But I can’t forget my own failure. Ah
, well. I’m beginning to sound as though I spend too much time around Habakkuk. He and Phil are deathly enemies, by the way.

  Love to you all,

  Tom.

  PS Do you think Miss Courtney would marry me? I could be happy for the rest of my life surrounded by her paintings!’

  Tom sealed the letter and left it on Sally’s desk for the post, then ushered in his last patient for the day.

  ‘Sit back, Valerie, and make yourself comfortable. How did you sleep last night?’

  ‘Badly, I’m afraid. I’m worried that we’re stirring up the goblins.’ Pale and tired-looking, she seemed glad to sink back into the recliner and put her feet up.

  She was, as usual, impeccably turned out. Tom had the feeling that little short of a bomb blast would cause Valerie Winterhouse to appear in public less than perfectly groomed. Which was one good sign. In his experience, patients who began to neglect their appearance were well on the downward slide. It was only an indication, however. Women of her type prepared for the day automatically, as likely to appear naked in public as bare faced.

  He said, bracingly, ‘That’s what we’re aiming for. A good stir in the sludge brings things to the surface, where they can be dealt with. It’s painful, sure, but worthwhile.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ She smiled a little, and her eyes moved straight to the painting on the wall in front of her. ‘I dreamed about it, you know. I dreamed that I took a knife and carved and slashed until there was nothing of it left.’

  He was surprised that her tone expressed satisfaction, rather than horror.

  ‘I thought you were crazy about it.’

  ‘I am. It was only a dream.’ She dismissed the subject and turned to him eagerly, wanting to begin the session. Her large white hands plucked at the padded chair arms. She was not as much at ease as she would have him believe.

  Tom could not dismiss the dream, or rather, her attitude towards it, quite so easily.

  ‘You’ve felt strongly about the painting ever since you first saw it. Why do you think that is?’

  ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘I think you do. This is important, Valerie. Think about it for a minute.’

  Her fingers drummed irritably on the chair arms, but at length she answered. ‘It has a peculiar drawing power. I can hardly take my eyes off it when I’m in the same room. I don’t like that.’

  Tom nodded. Not many people were comfortable with the feeling that they were not totally in charge of their emotions. Was she so afraid of losing control that she wanted to slash the object exerting such power? He decided to let it rest, for the present, aware that his own strong reaction to the painting had no place in this interview.

  ‘Okay, let’s go back again to your childhood, since we’ve already made some discoveries there. Are you happy to do that?’

  ‘Why not? It’s a very relaxing experience, since I don’t remember any of it.’

  ‘Well, today we’re changing that. I want you to remember, and I’ll give your subconscious that message before you regress.’

  Her face altered, sharpening. For an instant he was reminded of a vixen caught up in the hunt.

  ‘I don’t think I like the sound of that. There are parts of my youth that I’ve managed to forget. If I have to talk about them, I will, but going through the actual experiences again… I’d rather not.’

  ‘Very likely, but that isn’t why you’re here, is it? We all bury hurtful incidents. Often it turns out we’ve merely driven a splinter deep under the psychic skin to fester and worry us at a lower level. You are here to dig for splinters. You can’t face your life any longer without clearing out the past and its repercussions.’ He waited, letting the words sink in. If she couldn’t agree to his form of surgery, she must tell him now, before they began.

  He’d given a lot of thought to her curious behavior in the past session. Having dismissed Phil’s notion of a past-life regression, he had decided that a far more believable label was the one put forward by Jung himself – psychic projection or, in layman’s terms, interference by the patient’s own subconscious mind. He was certain it would not happen again. As he hadn’t told Valerie about it, her conscious mind remained in ignorance of the whole startling event. There was no reason to believe in a random recurrence.

  ‘Valerie, as you know, after each session we discuss the matters that arise. It’s not too threatening, as you’ve discovered. But to actually re-experience an event and have total recall is far more effective.’

  ‘I imagine it is,’ she said dryly. ‘It’s probably one hell of a nasty jolt.’

  Tom smiled. ‘Not always. It can be delightful. If something painful does arise, I promise I won’t allow you to become too distressed. We can move away from any hot spots and return later, if necessary. The main thing is to pinpoint these as we progress. You will probably find them cropping up in your dreams, or even as conscious memories; and instead of being frightening or confusing symbols they’ll be recognizable. We can look at how they’re affecting you in the present and, if necessary, clear them away.’

  She seemed to be giving his little speech quite some consideration.

  ‘You know, I never had much of a sense of humor,’ she said, ‘especially not directed at myself. But you’ve really got to laugh. Here I am able to buy and sell you a hundred times over; used to people jumping when I give the order; expecting and getting the best of everything this world has to offer – and I’m sitting in a shabby little room with an equally shabby man who is telling me to jump, or get the hell out of here and stop wasting his time. It’s funny.’ She looked more irritated than amused.

  ‘I didn’t say –’

  ‘You implied it. Well, that’s the way it goes. I don’t suppose I can blame you. You’ve got the upper hand.’

  Tom thought about the hours he spent with desperately unhappy people, people he wanted to help get their lives back on course, and his lips tightened. Then he shrugged mentally and put aside personal reactions. Valerie was every bit as much in need as his other patients were, and he’d do his damnedest for her, whether or not she appreciated his motives.

  They looked steadily at one another for a long minute. Then Tom said, ‘Shall we begin? Let go all the muscles in your feet and toes. Feel them flopping, lying totally at rest. Now the muscles in your calves and shins. Feel them growing heavier and heavier…’

  Three minutes later she had gone down to that pleasant garden he evoked for her. He allowed her to wander there listening to his voice guiding, reassuring, then began gently pushing her back through the years to early childhood.

  *

  He sat in the shadow thrown by his desk lamp, his face deliberately masked by that shadow, although there was no one to see it. Valerie had gone hours ago. She’d insisted she was fine, and considering the fact that she’d been the one to go through the experience and remember it in fine detail, he felt she’d survived the extraordinary session in far better shape than he.

  Recalling his frenzied attempts to bring her out of the regressed state, unsuccessful for far too long, the sweat came out on his forehead. He hadn’t thought it would be like that again. He’d never have risked it. None of his patients ever slipped away from him as Valerie had. None of them turned into another personality before his unbelieving eyes.

  He’d replayed the tape until he could repeat it word for word, but it hadn’t helped. Now he switched it on again and listened. Valerie’s voice had changed astonishingly. No longer educated, and now marred with a burr, it was scarcely intelligible. It was the voice she’d used before, and the same gypsyish features had emerged from a subtle remolding of her face. She’d reverted to the woman who swore and stood her ground so effectively against invisible tormentors.

  This time, however, the situation had changed. Deaf to Tom’s voice, she carried on a conversation with someone, a child perhaps, who was fretful and needed soothing. She questioned and probed and made movements compatible with stroking and sponging a body.


  This continued for some minutes, with Tom making periodic attempts at contact. Then she straightened up to confront someone, her voice laden with repulsion.

  ‘So, then, ‘tis witchcraft to brew tansy and bathe a fevered child wi’ vinegar, Sir Priest? ‘Tis following the Anti-Christ to hold back a life wi’ prayers and the fruits of God’s own earth? What would ye have me do otherwise? I am no heretic. Ye cannot affright me wi’y’r prying and tale telling. By cock’s muddy bones, I defy ye to prove aught against me!’

  She appeared to listen, her head turned aside. ‘Aye, ye’ve a care to the folk living here in t’parish. But there’s no threat to their souls – not from me. I lighted my candle in t’chapel on St. Anne’s Mount this very day, and prayed to Our Blessed Lady for my own soul’s salvation. Go pry in some steamy midden, Sir Priest, for t’smell o’brimstone does not bide here.’

  A long pause ensued. Then the silence was suddenly broken by Valerie’s normal voice. ‘Who the hell are you? What am I…? What am I doing…? Jesus! What a set-up!’ She broke off again, and said more calmly, ‘I thought you promised me a delightful experience, Doctor Tom Levy.’

  *

  Tom pushed the rewind button. He sank down, chin on chest in his usual attitude for deep thought, and examined the personal philosophy behind the therapeutic methods he practiced. He’d always believed that the course followed, and its outcome, should be as much the patient’s responsibility as the therapist’s. No one could make someone else change unless that someone, at some level within, wanted to change. Hence his tendency towards what has been labeled existential therapy and away from such methods as hypnosis, which concentrates power and responsibility in the therapist.

  Or so it should. But in Valerie’s case something happened which should not have happened. Perhaps this particular form of therapy was not in the patient’s best interests. Perhaps he, Tom, should decline further intervention and encourage her to approach another worker in the field.