Angels in the Architecture (25 page)

But they have nothing to measure that by; no ability to paint even a picture in their own minds that would show them anything.

Your moral view is too one-dimensional. Think more broadly of the possibilities, of the abilities of their senses to interact with the Light in different ways. They chose this challenge, remember.

I’m not sure you could say they chose it.

By their actions, of course they did. They’ve always sought more and more, both of them. They were hungry for the challenge. And full of ego. Too much Self, both of them.

Well, there’s no ego there now
in these almost mindless boys.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. They’re entirely in their own worlds. Isn’t that ego?

Of a sort, I suppose.

This could be the ultimate ego struggle, locked
in Self as they are, despite their innate affinity with the Light.

Their captivation with
the Light often overpowers them.

Yes, in one way it keeps them from their task.

They simply play with it.

But still they receive
substantial Energy in this way and this does feed their souls.

But with no
one to lead them
...

You
must lead them. And there will be others. You’ll see.

Me? This is
your
task foremost!

As you wish
.

Most of their influences are the wrong ones.

No, no. Everything will unfold in the direction of good. You’ll see.

I don’t have quite
your Faith. Well, that’s obvious by now. I struggle even with knowing that Faith is all I need. I find myself needing to initiate or provide some skill. A physical skill virtually.

Then you must find
your Faith. You are not a physical being so it is all you have, my friend. Otherwise your own thoughts will prevail and will shift Energy away from its right course.

I was never as strong as
them anyway. I wouldn’t have chosen their path.

You may yet. You’re a novice. You could be stronger. Watch. The boys – their manifestations – will find their path. Stay with them. Don’t focus on limitations, theirs or yours. Just keep sending out the message to them, their opportunity to make the difference.

But to change the future
...?

To prevent a future that is not acceptable
.

And the past?
This
past?

. . ..
is where the future is rooted.

Footsteps brushing across the dusty path came near the two monks’ sunny spot
, and both turned to see a tall man in purple robes strolling slowly their way. The man’s head was bowed in thought and then rose as he caught the movement of the two figures just in front of him.

‘Excellency,’ said the older monk, bowing low.

His companion followed suit.

‘My sons,’ responded
the Bishop. ‘I see you are seeking some silent reflection at the water, as do I.’

‘There is a cool air comes off the
water, Excellency,’ the older monk replied.

‘And that is certainly needed if one is to think clearly, or better, to find the voice
of God. There is most certainly too much din atop the hill for a poor man of God to hear a thing.’

‘I’m
sure, Excellency, that God is never far from you,’ spoke the older monk again.

‘Oh
, do not be defrauded by the Purple, Brother. It is no less difficult for me as any to hear and understand God’s will.’

‘I’ve no doubt
, my Lord. What I mean is that, while you may not hear God, He is ever near to you. And in that, sir, I do think He
is
nearer you than most.’

‘You are
kind, Brother,’ replied the Bishop, bowing a little to the monk. ‘One’s own limitations do distract one.’

‘Of course. I will pray for
you, Father. Yours is a great load to bear, and amid much expectation.’ The monk bowed low again and motioned for his young companion to back away with him and leave the Bishop in peace.

‘Thank you for
... your presence,’ Hugh called, watching for a time as the two monks strolled comfortably away from him.

I felt that.

Yes, it’s the field.

There really is a unified field?

Oh give it whichever name you like, but yes, of course. It’s the same thing the family experienced for that brief moment as their sons left, but they didn’t understand its value. It was not so long ago, a man made a system to mimic a magnetic field like that of the family in grief. It drew upon surrounding energy and sent a pulse, a signal of energy, a radio wave, across
fifty
miles. Considering the times it was a long distance, so far indeed that it might as well have transmitted its signal to Heaven’s own door. But our dearest Mr Tesla’s oscillator was destroyed in a fire, and a year later, Master Marconi took the honour with a system some said ought not to have been able to send its message across a pond. So it is anyway, that spirit always meets science, for those willing to see and to find.

It’s
the Holy Grail.

A facetious response; but in effect, yes. What a man such as
that Bishop could find in conversation with a scientist of the modern world ...

There would be no telling
...

Unfortunately.

So the Bishop transmits a strong Energy?

Yes, which met our own, and there was a link between us, which no doubt he felt also.

What will he make of it? I wonder.

He has the power for
great Good. And when that Light, that Power, mixes with its own kind, it grows far greater, more than the sum of its parts. This is what we are to do. So there, you see, you have had a real lesson in what it is that we are to do, what it is that can be created.

But I didn’t do anything.

Exactly. You weren’t thinking. You were happy to meet the Bishop and add your Energy, unknowingly, to his.

So I c
ould create happiness?

You’re getting the idea
.

11

Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.

John Lennon (1940
–
1980)

             
Pete held Tim’s hand as he locked the car door and dropped his keys into his jacket pocket. Tim bopped up and down and shook his other hand so that he looked like he was grooving to some beat or other and pretending to strum along. He walked along beside Pete like this – Pete didn’t really notice because this was something Tim did a lot and anyway; he was mostly concerned to get speedily across the supermarket car park without getting backed into by a car or trolley-rushed by some unseeing shopper. He had a long written list of what was needed, and since he always managed to miss getting at least two or three things that were on the list and this always pissed Alicia off, he was intent on getting through the whole list in its entirety even if he had to circle the aisles a dozen times. He’d just let Jillie off at her school, which was a nightmare of bottleneck proportions at the school gate, with parents double-parking all along the school road, and others running the gauntlet between these and the school buses to cross the road. Pete always left Tim in the car and locked the car, but each part of this act was a detail he was afraid to neglect, and he was perpetually surprised that no parent or child had apparently yet been killed or at least maimed in this daily ambush..

Pete’s schedule for the day was one
child-focused task heaped on the next and barely a break in between any of these. After the supermarket, he had a psychologist’s visit with Tim in Lincoln; then a play group that was entirely frequented by normal children with their mothers, making Pete feel doubly odd, despite his determination to make his presence as a father with an autistic child an acceptable exercise in parenting.

Inside the
supermarket, Pete let Tim’s hand go briefly as he pulled a trolley from a queue with the inevitable heave and jerk this required, narrowly avoiding sending the trolley singing into his son’s head. He lifted Tim into the front of the trolley and veered around through the greengrocery. He knew he had about twenty minutes before Tim lost all ability to remain calmly in the trolley, which would not really be enough time, especially if the checkout queues were full and even more especially if he couldn’t find something on the damned list. At that point Tim would start wailing and would want to get out of the trolley and Pete would assume everyone within a fifty-yard radius would both see and hear this and assume that he had either hit his son or was otherwise unfit to parent in some way, and this because to all the world Tim looked like any other child. Who was to know he wasn’t? It was all very well to have the determination to parent his son regardless of the narrow confines of this English cultural context, but it wasn’t easy just the same, and paranoia, or was it an accurate take on reality, frequently descended..

Fortunately there didn’t seem to be too many shoppers
and Pete worked through his list with reasonable efficiency. Tim looked around at the supermarket shelves, without actually really looking at them, and making toddler babble.

Because he was a sweet,
good-looking child, like other such appealing children he attracted attention from adults who came into contact with him in some way – other shoppers and some store workers – all women. Most did not seem to notice that Tim wasn’t the usual intellectual elevation of others his age; perhaps people thought he was just very tall for his age. ‘
What a lovely wee boy’,
women would say over the sausages or the baked beans shelf or down the bathroom aisle, as Tim sing-songed to himself. Pete would always smile and say ‘
thank you’
or ‘
yes, he is’
, and he wouldn’t really think about whether Tim was doing anything odd or not at the time, or whether any of these people noticed anything unusual about him..

By the
time Pete was at the biscuit and pet food aisle, he could see Tim’s movements and sounds were starting to get subtly louder. Rounding the end of the aisle, he sank a bit to see several overstuffed trolleys waiting to go through the checkouts.

Bugger.

He walked the length of the checkout row and then missed one likely spot on the way back.

Shit.

He found the next most likely counter and waited, the second trolley back from the one now working its way through the exit. A lengthy standstill would further exacerbate Tim’s impatience. Pete picked out a magazine from a rack near the counter and tried to block out Tim’s movement and noise, which was in fact not possible, and his own impatience swelled slowly to irritation. The hum of the store was sufficient that Tim’s crescendo had not yet risen to too noticeable a level, but Pete could see it threatened.

The front trolley was moving off
, and the one in front of Pete had unloaded half its contents. Funny, he thought of the whole thing as a trolley, not a person and a trolley. The trolley unloaded its own contents – yeah, right.

God, is this what I’m reduced to? I’m a serious writer
, and there’s total garbage in my head. Think about something intelligent, you moron. Okay, car engines. Need to get some sparks for the car. Need to wash Alicia’s car this Sunday and vacuum out the backseat where Tim’s been stuffing leftover biscuits. Bloody hell – back to Tim again. How’s he doing? Hang on, mate. Not long. Geez, this is a bit of crap writing in this magazine. Why don’t they have the Guardian or something at the checkout – why’s it all this rubbish? C’mon, lady. Move ya’ bleedin’ arse! Calm down, calm down. Everything’s moving along, steady as she goes. Things take the time they take. Take a deep breath. Put that crap mag back!

‘Hey
, buddy. How’s it going? Not long, okay?’

Tim was getting louder. A look from the woman in front. Sympathetic it seemed. So far
.

C’mon, c’mon
.

Tim was winding up to a major howl. Pete hated that people would
think Tim was naughty or spoiled.

At last.

The woman in front had emptied her groceries onto the counter, and Pete could start unloading his. He’d got everything on the list – a minor miracle.

I wonder if a full grocery list shop entitles me to a shag. You’re
pathetic, Pete Watson, you know that.

Tim was at full throttle
, and with only a few minutes to go now Pete felt he could ignore both the sound and any stares that came his way. He focused on unloading and piling, unloading and piling. The woman in front moved off, and the checkout operator started tallying Pete’s items.

We’re moving, we’re moving. Yes!