Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  When she first entered the household, Siena had been only a twasa or initiate, but since then she had fully entered the world of the isangoma. The farmhands would consult with Siena first before going to see Doc Smith with their medical problems. If you needed help in locating a missing item, Siena was the one to ask. She could identify witches and was in intimate contact with the ancestral spirits. And even those who scoffed at her powers could not deny her insight into human nature. She was an excellent judge of character and she made it her business to know as much as she could about the lives of the people who lived on the farm. Much of her success as a diviner was based on the fact that she could shrewdly manipulate those who sought her advice by knowing a great deal about them. It was a lesson she made sure to impress on Alette: to know her friends well … and her enemies, very well.

  • • •

  SIENA’S ROOM was dark and cool. It was quiet: only the despairing buzz of a bluebottle, trapped between the pane of glass and the mosquito-wire screen, disturbed the silence. Isa felt her eyes grow heavy. It was tjaila time—the hours between two and four in the afternoon, when all activity on the farm ceased. Aunt Lettie would be taking a nap, balancing on her forehead a cooling handkerchief dipped in rose water. Uncle Leon was in his study.

  Alette was lying on her stomach on top of Siena’s bed, looking down. Siena’s mattress was balanced on a number of bricks that were stacked below each corner of the bed. These bricks raised the bed to a lofty height. The reason, as Alette had once explained to Isa, was to keep Siena safe from the tokoloshe: a malevolent little man with a large head and a rapacious sexual appetite. However, as his legs were very short, the tokoloshe could not get on top of a bed that was raised in this way.

  On the other side of the room Siena was sitting cross-legged on the ground. She was a large woman but moved with ease and could fold her limbs into impossible positions. While Alette had been talking, she had seemed almost asleep, her lids drooping low over her eyes. She hadn’t interrupted Alette’s flow of words even once.

  Now she stirred. ‘Soon you will stop dreaming on your own and have a shared dream,’ she said. Her hand gestured from Alette to Isa. ‘And the shared dream will lead to a waking dream.’

  ‘What is a waking dream, my ousie?’ Alette’s voice was respectful. Her manner towards Siena was always tempered with deference. Alette showed scant regard for the authority figures in her life, but Siena was the exception. Siena was able to shame Alette to tears with a single glance.

  ‘In a waking dream you will know you are dreaming and you will have the power to change your dream. You will walk through your sleep and your mind will be awake.’

  Isa regarded the old woman dubiously.

  ‘In the Kalahari desert,’ Siena continued, ‘the San people say we are all part of the Great Dream which dreams us.’

  Alette understood immediately. ‘So the real world and the dream world are one. There is no true distinction between them.’

  Siena nodded. ‘Life itself may be a dream. And sleep a quick death and death a long sleep.’

  Siena suddenly turned towards Isa. ‘I am afraid for this one,’ she said, and looked at Isa directly. ‘You do not have the power to change the dream. You can only take the hand and follow.’

  Isa’s throat felt dry. ‘The hand?’

  ‘Yes, you must take her hand.’ Siena pointed to Alette. ‘But take care …’ She hesitated as though searching for the correct word, and then continued in rapid Zulu.

  Alette was fluent in Zulu. She grew up hearing Zulu spoken by Siena and by the cane cutters on the farm, but Isa did not speak the language. She looked questioningly at Alette, who was listening carefully. ‘What is she saying?’

  Alette hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I don’t quite follow.’ But Isa had the feeling that Alette had in fact understood every word.

  Only many years later did Isa learn what Siena had warned her about: ‘Take care that you do not get lost in there,’ the old woman had said. ‘And take care that the dream does not take possession of you.’

  • • •

  BUT THE DREAMS she shared with Alette during those first few years did not seem sinister at all. In fact, they were joyous and magical: liberating beyond imagining.

  Her memory of the first time she and Alette had consciously walked through a dream together would never leave her.

  She had just made the transition from waking to sleeping. One moment she was lying in her bed, aware of the cool bed linen beneath her palm, the room silvered by a pale wash of moonlight, the far-off chatter of the radio in the living room floating up the staircase. The next moment she was standing in an open field. Her dreamscape seemed deserted, but she knew she was not alone.

  She turned her head and Alette was at her side. She knew it was Alette, although in those first initial moments of the dream she was able to see only a hand protruding from the shadowy fall of the wide sleeve of Alette’s nightdress. The hand was held out at her, outstretched in invitation, palm turned upward. ‘Take my hand.’ And trustingly, without any hesitation or fear, Isa placed her hand inside Alette’s.

  The dreamscape around her suddenly bunched like a muscle, folding in on itself before unfurling again in a giant spasm. Her eyes were dazzled by a million colours that would be impossible to imagine upon waking. Trees exploding into vivid colours like burning torches. Transparent skies and clouds of solid rock. Weeping stones and sugared stars. Flowers imbued with an inner life. But despite the ecstatic blend of form and colour, the world around her seemed stupendously real and minutely detailed. More real, in fact, than the real world.

  But what made her shared dreams with Alette truly magical was that Alette was able to control the events in the dream.

  Alette taking a key from her pocket, opening a door, and peeking into the blackness behind it. ‘No, we won’t go in here. Let’s try the next door.’

  Alette throwing herself backward, her long red hair streaming past her shoulders. ‘Don’t let go of my hand, Isabelle.’ And Isa falling, falling: a long vertiginous drop with the walls of the cliff so close, if she reached out her hand she could touch them. The wind thundered in her ears—her eyeballs felt dry and tearless. She turned her head and saw the white blur of Alette’s teeth. And suddenly she was gripped by fear and cried out and Alette said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll stop this. We’ll go back.’ And the next moment they were standing again safely at the top of the cliff, looking down at the void beneath their feet; as though just by imagining or thinking about it, Alette had made it happen immediately. This became the magic phrase in all subsequent dreams: ‘Don’t worry, we’ll stop this. We’ll go back.’ And the monsters would retreat, the shadows disappear.

  It never occurred to Isa then that this was in any way unusual: this ability to enter the dreamscape in full consciousness, to have in you the power to direct and change the stuff of your dreams to fit in with your desires: to mould it to your hand. She did not understand then how extraordinary it was not to be at the mercy of whatever your unconscious decided to throw up at you: to free yourself from the demons stalking the world of sleep. Only many years later, as an adult, when she had started to read up on the phenomenon of alert dreaming, did she realize how rare it was—the ability to consciously manipulate and interact with the events in your dreams.

  Her research taught her that this was a phenomenon known to science and that it had even been given a name: lucid dreaming. Though lucid dreaming could—with great difficulty—be learned, less than five per cent of the population were natural lucid dreamers with the power to consciously take control of the events in their dreamscape. She learned that children and adolescents were more likely to dream lucidly and that the most advantageous time for lucid dreaming was close to dawn when the cycle of sleep is near its end and REM sleep at its most prolonged.

  Lucid dreaming has a tradition stretching back over millennia. Shamans and mystics considered it an integral part of their existence. In the East it has always played an
important role in meditative practices. But in the West, especially during the Catholic Inquisition, lucid dreaming became part of a hidden, furtive world allied to alchemy, Freemasonry, and witchcraft: a perverse practice that could only be whispered about and hinted at. It was not until the early eighties when Stephen LaBerge at Stanford University managed to induce lucid dreams in laboratory conditions that respectability returned to the field and science started to take the phenomenon seriously.

  Power over dreams. Of course, she, Isa, did not have that power. Alette was the dream master—she, merely the companion. As long as she held on to Alette’s hand, she could share in the adventure. The only thing within her control was whether to hold on, or whether to let go. If she let go of Alette’s hand, the dream ended and she woke up. But she seldom let go.

  Until she met Eric. At first, he had been fascinated by what she told him about her night visits with Alette. But then he became critical. There was something ‘unhealthy’ about it, he said. He wanted her to stop. And she, so in love, so afraid of losing him, had decided the time had come to sever the shimmering link between herself and her cousin.

  The next time she saw the hand appear in a dream, she ignored it.

  It was not easy, everything inside her wanted to feel those cool fingers folding around her own. She knew she was cutting herself off from a parallel existence in which she could escape the Isa who lived on the margins, who looked in on life. She knew she was losing the Isa who was bold and intrepid. But she was in love. She was weak.

  The hand returned in subsequent dreams and every time Isa turned her back on it. And finally the image of it started to fade and flicker like audiovisual signals sent to earth by astronauts who were drifting farther and farther into space. And then it disappeared altogether. She and Alette had not had a shared dream in more than twelve years.

  So was that what it was, then? The telephone call from the dead? A return to an old childhood practice—merely part of a conscious dream? There was, after all, the hand. It was the first time the hand had appeared in her dreams in a very, very long time. But you couldn’t share a dream with someone who was dead … could you?

  Maybe she had succeeded in deliberately inducing this dream. Words imagined; a familiar, loved voice willed into being. Perhaps she had had an unconscious wish to hear Alette’s voice: that low, whispery voice that made you feel as though you were about to listen to a most exciting secret. Her days were so grey now, so deadened. Maybe she had needed to be touched by Alette’s vitality, her restlessness, her jarring common sense.

  It was a comforting explanation, but Isa knew in her bones that it was not the correct explanation. There was more to it than that.

  To begin with, during the phone call, she had not experienced the feverish texture and richness that characterized the lucid dreams she had shared with Alette. She might not have experienced a waking dream in almost twelve years, but she could still vividly recall the feel of it: the opulence, the glow of energy and light that animated every single object.

  But there was another, more compelling reason why the phone call could not have been part of a lucid dream. Alette’s hand had always been the trigger that started every one of their shared dreams. The flat monotone of an ordinary dream could only be transformed into a lucid dream after she and Alette linked hands. But on the night when she had dreamed of Eric’s funeral, she had not taken the hand, which had tugged at her sleeve so insistently.

  No, the phone call was real. The phone call was part of the waking world, not the sleeping world. And somehow, she did not know why or how, it was tied in with Alette and Justin’s destructive relationship and with a letter: a vengeful letter, which describes in careful and loving detail the blueprint for one man’s destruction.

  SIX

  I could have fled from One but singly fair:

  My dis-intangled Soul it self might save.

  Breaking the curled trammels of her hair.

  The Fair Singer

  Andrew Marvell (1621–1678)

  ‘HELLO, HELLO. Who is this?’

  Robert Geissinger’s voice sounded irritated. Twice now Isa had called him on his extension and twice she had hung up just as he answered. His name was the first of the three names that appeared at the end of Alette’s letter.

  We’re going to start a rumour. It’s easy: here’s how.

  Isa tried to speak but her throat closed. The receiver clung to her sweaty palm.

  ‘Oh, sod off,’ the broker said vehemently, and the phone clicked in her ear as he hung up on her.

  Isa replaced the receiver slowly. She was sitting in Alette’s bedroom at the Regency writing desk that faced the back window. On the wall next to the fragile marquetry table were shelves housing a large variety of antique perfume bottles. The sun was streaming in through the window, warming the bottles and causing a faded fragrance to scent the air.

  Propped up against the tiny galleried drawers of the desk was Alette’s letter. The pages were dog-eared. After reading and rereading the document so many times, she knew almost every word by heart.

  She couldn’t believe she was seriously contemplating doing what Alette wanted. She hardly knew Justin. She had spent a few days with him and Alette in London the week before the two of them got married, and from what she recalled, he couldn’t have been more pleasant. Dark-haired, sophisticated, and attractive, he and Alette made a striking couple. They seemed so much in love. Alette looked serene and calm. In her eyes was the contentment of someone who had reached a goal long sought after.

  And when Alette walked down the aisle, hadn’t she, Isa, felt just the faintest pang of jealousy? Orange blossom, white veils, iced cake. All the trappings and trimmings of a ceremony she sensed she herself would never experience.

  Three years ago, when Alette first told her that she was planning to divorce, Isa had pitied Justin just a little. He had the distinction of being married to Alette, but obviously he was merely the last in a line of lovers with whom Alette shared her time before moving on. Alette was kind to former lovers and usually the parting was amicable. Of course, if Alette had told her what the real state of affairs was, she would not have wasted her pity on Justin. But Alette had never said a word.

  Please, please do this for me. I have suffered.

  She shivered. Alette never begged for anything. It distressed Isa, made her feel insecure. Alette had always been the fearless one. Alette was the one who could cope with any situation. How was it possible that one man had managed to traumatize her cousin so?

  She looked again at the names of the three brokers with their telephone numbers, which Alette had carefully printed one below the other. Maybe this wasn’t such a big deal. It did not seem as though telling these men of Temple Sullivan’s supply problems would have consequences that severe. Alette herself said in the letter that the stock would dip but probably recover. Maybe she should call the brokers, send those two letters to the newspapers, and see what happened. Next week she’d take a look at what the second envelope contained. She could always back out of the whole thing then.

  Isa placed her hand on the receiver; hesitated.

  I’ve always watched out for you … I know I can count on you now. You’ll do this for me, won’t you. Won’t you?

  Isa picked up the receiver and started to dial. When Robert Geissinger answered, she spoke in a clear, strong voice.

  ‘Mr Geissinger, you don’t know me but I have some information which you might find interesting. It concerns the pharmaceutical company, Temple Sullivan …’

  • • •

  FIVE KILOMETRES AWAY, Robert Geissinger hung up the receiver and looked at the piece of paper on which he had doodled during the conversation. He had written the words ‘Temple Sullivan’ and surrounded it with lots of smiling ‘have-a-nice-day’ faces. Rather symbolic, he thought. And appropriate. Only happy thoughts where this company was concerned. Talk about your super growth stock.

  Way back when he was still squeezing pimples and trying to l
ook down Susan Curtis’s blouse in science class, Temple Sullivan was just another small company with a promising but problematic product. The drug had to jump the twin hurdles of getting FDA approval and EMEA marketing authorization: formidable obstacles both. But even in those days, the company had caught his interest.

  Geissinger had been an unusual teen: apart from an abiding love for Manchester United football team, his passion in life was the stock market. By the age of thirteen, he was checking closing prices on CEEFAX. By the time his voice broke, he had a phantom portfolio of stocks he would have invested in if he had the money and the means. Topping the list was Temple Sullivan. He had told his father, a long-distance truck driver, to get into the market, but the old man had refused. A real shame that was. In those days you could buy Temple Sullivan stock on the London Stock Exchange at seventy-five pence per share. Today the stock trades at forty-two pounds per share. If his Da’ had invested only one year’s fag money, he would have been able to buy a house by this time.

  A few years later Geissinger had joined Devereaux as a broker. He didn’t have much by way of higher education, but he had street smarts and he was hungry. And he was still interested in Taumex. He knew in his gut that this was the next big thing. Bigger than Zantac. Bigger than Prozac. He kept the faith, despite some setbacks in the early in vitro and animal clinical trials. Forget cancer and heart attacks, he told his mates. Growing old is the big fear. Growing old gaga is the Godzilla of fears. If you can swallow a pill to stop that from happening—well, you have found the pot at the end of the rainbow. Furthermore, apart from the product, he was impressed by Justin Temple and the management team he had put together. Temple had managed to coax Gabriel Perette, a man who commanded a great deal of respect in the City, out of early retirement and had persuaded him to become Temple Sullivan’s finance director. Patience was all that was needed. This company was a winner, he was sure of it.