Mystical Paths (33 page)

‘Yes, I knew Francis.’

‘And did you know Aidan Lucas? He was Abbot of Ruydale when my father was Master of Novices there.’

‘Yes, I knew Aidan.’

‘And Cyril – Cyril Watson?’ I was enthralled that someone else outside the Order should be so familiar with the major characters in my father’s long-running cenobitic soap-opera.

‘Yes, I knew Cyril,’ said Lewis. ‘He was the Abbot of Star-water during my schooldays there.’

‘I was at Starwater Abbey too! Did you know –’

‘Probably. Shall we get back to Christian?’

But a mesmerising thought had occurred to me. ‘Did you ever meet Father Darcy?’

‘Yes, I did.’

I was deeply impressed. ‘You knew everyone!’

‘But not Christian. Now, you said you were a member of the Cathedral Close set, but nevertheless he must have been considerably older than you. How did your paths manage not merely to cross but to interweave?’

With reluctance I abandoned the subject of Lewis’s distinguished acquaintances among the Fordite monks, and began to describe the innocent ‘orgy’ which Marina had given at her grandmother’s house in the May of 1963.

VI

He was a superb listener. He soaked up my story with the efficiency of blotting-paper absorbing ink, grasped instantly who was who, picked up every nuance of my narrative and punctuated the briefing with summaries which were remarkable for their accuracy. I held nothing back except my disastrous sexual lapses with Katie, Marina and Venetia, the complex torment I was currently experiencing with my father, and the interminable abrasiveness of my relationship with Martin. I thought it was important not to clutter up the narrative with irrelevancies.

When I had finished my story Lewis made no immediate comment on it but said he was interested in my psychic gift, and in response to his mild, friendly questions I described my powers in detail.

‘... but I’ve never had a vision,’ I concluded. I thought it wise at this point to use my firmest voice to stop him jumping to conclusions about Christian’s appearance in the garden. Now that my panic had subsided I found I was less inclined to believe my sighting had been paranormal; in fact the more I replayed the memory the more convinced I became that I had seen Christian in the flesh. ‘My father has visions occasionally,’ I said, ‘but I’m not nearly so gifted as he is.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Well ...’ I was so taken aback that I found it hard to explain this obvious fact of life. ‘He’s exceptional and I’m not. He’s so distinguished, so wise, so devout, so

‘Yes, I dare say he is, now that he’s nearly eighty-eight, but what was he like when he was your age?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he was always far more gifted than I am. His visions –’

What’s the big deal about having a vision?’ said Lewis. ‘If your appalling bout of foreknowledge at Marina’s party had been translated into visual terms would you have known any more than you actually did? Does a radio play automatically become more exalted when someone adapts it for television?’

I stared, amazed by this cavalier approach. My father and Aelred Peters had always referred to the subject of visions with so much awe and reverence that it had never occurred to me that my failure to have a vision could be anything but a psychic deficiency.

‘All the best spiritual guides say that psychic manifestations are a distraction to those following the spiritual way,’ said Lewis. ‘If you don’t have visions, consider yourself lucky.’

I suddenly realised I longed to egg him on into further displays of iconoclasm. ‘But at least one of my father’s visions was very special!’ I protested. ‘It was the vision calling him to leave the Order. His superior ruled that it was a direct communication from God.’

‘Fine. If God chose to communicate in that way with your father, so be it. But God has many less spectacular ways of communicating with his creation, and they’re just as valid as any vision.’

‘So what you’re saying is ... well, what you seem to be saying is ... I mean, are you saying that just because I don’t have visions –’

‘– you’re not necessarily less gifted than your father. Okay, let’s pause there so that I can summarise your description of yourself as a psychic: you regularly experience moments of "knowing", but most of the time these could simply be the result of a well-developed intuition working in conjunction with a sharp intelligence. However, far less frequently you experience powerful moments of either "knowing" or "foreknowing" and these can’t be written off as anything but the operation of a psychic gift. Would you agree that was a fair summary of your powers?’

Well, I think you’re downgrading my regular moments of "knowing" just a little –’

‘You don’t like your clever guesses being written off in that way?’

‘They’re not just clever guesses! The true psychic "gnosis" is independent of –’

"Gnosis"! What an evocative word! But don’t let’s get side- tracked because I’m keen to build up your psychic portrait in even greater detail. Have you ever suffered from uncontrolled outbursts of kinetic energy and generated the phenomenon that’s known as poltergeist activity?’

‘That happened in my teens after my mother died.’

‘And what about the deliberate use of such energy — have you ever stopped a watch, for instance, just by looking at it?’

I said evasively: ‘My father always forbade me to do psychic parlour-tricks.’

‘Oh yes, yes, yes!’ said Lewis, very benign and good-natured. ‘But knowing teenagers I’m sure you were tempted to go your own way whenever your father wasn’t breathing down your neck.’

Well, as a matter of fact ...’ Reassured by the absence of criticism I threw caution to the winds. ‘Yes, I did give the trick a try — several times — but I never actually succeeded in stopping a watch. I just used to make the girls think I did.’

‘You mean you hypnotised them.’

Well...’

‘Good at it, were you?’

Again I was lured on by the benign tone and the absence of criticism. Adopting my most modest voice I said: ‘As it happens, hypnotism’s my forte. In fact to be quite honest —’

‘You’re a knock-out.’

‘Yep. I can put a girl under just like
that.
’
I snapped my fingers. ‘Men take a little longer, but girls are instant. When I was up at Cambridge —’ But instinct now told me it was time to apply the brakes. Cutting short my reminiscences I said carefully: ‘When I was young and insecure I relied on parlour-tricks to make people notice me, but I’m older and more self-confident now.’

‘And wiser too, I hope,’ said Lewis pleasantly. ‘Okay, let’s just sum up again: you have exceptional hypnotic skills and there’s been at least one occasion in your life when you’ve been the centre of paranormal activity — although the poltergeist phenomenon is not uncommon, as I’m sure you know, in households where an adolescent is under stress, so perhaps weshouldn’t make too much of that particular experience. Have you been involved in any poltergeist bouts since then?’

‘Yes. I mean, no. Well, maybe.’ I suddenly found myself wondering what he was trying to prove. ‘I was doing some voluntary work in a mental hospital,’ I said warily, ‘and some plates got smashed in the kitchen at odd hours, but I’m pretty sure now that one of the inmates was responsible.’

Were you still a teenager?’

‘No, I was twenty-three. I did voluntary work for two years when I came down from Cambridge.’

‘Stressful, was it?’

Well ‘Challenging, yes. Sure. Challenging.’

‘Anything challenging going on in your personal life right now?’

I said coldly: ‘You’re trying to prove I hallucinated this entire incident as the result of stress.’

‘I’d be very stupid to try to prove that particular possibility before I knew exactly what you’d seen — it would be putting the cart before the horse.’

‘Then why all the questions about —’

‘Just adding the finishing touches to your psychic profile. It’s important, you see, that I know exactly what kind of psychic I’m dealing with; I don’t want to make the mistake of writing you off as a nut-case, particularly when you seem to be commendably rational and intelligent. Now let’s just try and wrap the profile up as quickly as possible. Have you ever suffered from sleep-walking?’

Immediately I said: ‘No,’ but the next moment I was so confused by this lie that I wanted to retract it. ‘What’s that question got to do with me being a psychic?’ I demanded instead when I found retraction was impossible. ‘Anyone can sleep-walk!’

‘That’s quite true,’ agreed Lewis, ‘but I sometimes wonder if psychics aren’t peculiarly inclined to somnambulism. Their pathway between the conscious and the unconscious mind is better developed – more flexible, one might say – than the pathway of ordinary people, and when a psychic’s under stress that pathway can bend in odd directions.’

‘I’m not under stress.’

‘In fact sometimes,’ reflected Lewis, gazing across the lawn, ‘the pathway can become almost fluid, blurring the lines which separate sleeping and waking. Have you ever had difficulty knowing when you were asleep and when you were awake?’

‘Never.’

‘You’ve no sleep problems at all at the moment?’

‘None.’

‘Good. That, as far as I’m concerned, completes your psychic profile, and I have only one more question to ask before we complete this session: was Christian a psychic?’

Although startled I was in no doubt about the correct reply. ‘No,’ I said, ‘he wasn’t. Why?’

‘I was wondering if that could have been one of the reasons why he interested you so deeply, but obviously I was mistaken. Are you always able to recognise other psychics?’

‘Yes, always.
You
’
re
a psychic,’ I said as I looked straight into his eyes. ‘Your psyche’s supple but very strong, like a top-quality rope.’

He smiled before glancing at his watch. ‘We seem to have missed Vespers,’ he said, ‘but perhaps later we can make it to Compline. Shall we take a break for supper?’

We began to drift back across the lawn towards the guest-wing.

VII

There were four other guests in the dining-room. While we ate macaroni cheese, Daniel read aloud a passage from William Law’s
A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life.
Conversation among guests at meal-times was not forbidden but it was discouraged.

I ate some of the macaroni but refused the stewed apples which followed. In contrast Lewis ate every scrap on his plate much too quickly and even asked for more. I found myself wondering if his unusual ministry required an equally unusual intake of calories.

Once the meal had finished we adjourned to his room and he drew the black blind over the window.

‘Okay,’ he said as we sat down opposite each other at the table. ‘Session Two: the appearance. There you were, sitting in the back-garden. And then –’

I began to describe what had happened.

VIII

Afterwards Lewis lit a cigarette and said: ‘Before Christian appeared, did you notice a change in the light?’

‘No – but I know what you’re thinking,’ I said at once. ‘My father experiences certain alterations in reality immediately before he has a vision, and colours become very bright, just as they do in an LSD trip. I suppose God’s creating such a pressure on the psyche that certain chemicals are released in the brain.’

‘Have you ever taken LSD?’

‘Certainly not! I’ve taken no drug except alcohol – which I don’t particularly like. Believe me,’ I said strongly, ‘my psyche’s quite active enough as it is. The last thing it needs is to be jacked up with chemicals.’

Lewis merely said: ‘I’m interested in the flexible way you use the word "psyche".’

‘I’ve picked that up from my father. He uses it to describe the special force in each personality which varies from individual to individual and is as unique as a fingerprint. The psyche’s related to the ego and the conscious mind, but essentially it’s rooted in the inner self and so has access to the unconscious.’

‘The soul in action?’

‘Something like that. All language is really so inadequate –’ ‘You favour Jungian terms, I notice.’

‘I suppose you disapprove.’

‘Why should I? Jung talks a language it would pay Christians to master. Have you ever heard of an Anglican priest and monk called Christopher Bryant? He’s one of the Cowley Fathers, and he’s interested in the possibility of a Jungian-Christian synthesis.’

‘My father’s met him, I think. He’s a spiritual director, isn’t he? But I didn’t know he was an admirer of Jung.’

‘Is Jung ever mentioned at the Theological College?’ ‘Nothing interesting’s ever mentioned at the Theological College.’

‘I’m surprised your father sent you there! Isn’t he appalled by its inadequacies?’

‘Oh, he doesn’t know about them.’ I realised that this sounded odd so I added quickly: ‘He’s so old, you see, and at his age any shock or anxiety could be fatal. So I always go to great lengths to ensure he’s never upset.’

‘Really,’ said Lewis. He used the word as only an Englishman can use it. The syllables were so impregnated with courteous neutrality that it was impossible to know what he was thinking. ‘But Nicholas, just explain to me: why
did
you go to that College? I can understand your father being sentimental about the place where he was once the Principal, but that was a long time ago now and it’s not even Anglo-Catholic any more.’

‘I needed to be near my father. Because he’s so old it’s not good for him to be separated from me for too long.’

‘Ah.’

‘If we’re apart he tends to worry about me, you see, and of course I mustn’t let him get upset.’

‘Quite so. How did he manage when you were away at school?’

‘I was never farther away than Starwater, and anyway he was younger then. And it was all right when I was up at Cambridge because the University terms were so short. But then I began my two years’ voluntary work by going to Africa, and that was a mistake. Africa,’ I said, examining my thumb-nail, ‘didn’t work out.’’Where did you work when you came back to England?’ ‘Starmouth. Then Starbridge.’

‘Moving steadily closer to home?’

‘Well, it was safer.’

‘Safer?’

‘Yes, it made me feel more secure,’ I said, ‘to know that I could get home quickly if anything went wrong. I mean, if he fell ill. Once people get over eighty, any illness can be fatal.’

‘True. Bit of a worry for you, having this elderly parent.’ ‘Oh, but he’s always anxious never to be a burden and ht’s always encouraged me to lead my own life! He’s been a model parent in that respect.’

‘Ah,’ said Lewis, ‘so in fact he’s not the one who feels you have to be around. You’re the one who likes to stay close.’

‘Well, I’ve got to look after him, haven’t I? It’s my moral duty, and so long as I’m there to make sure he’s never upset there’s no reason why he shouldn’t live to be a hundred.’

‘You’re saying it’s very important to keep him alive.’

‘Well, of course it’s important! What kind of a son do you think I am?’

‘Devoted. All right, let’s end this digression about your father and return to the subject of Christian’s appearance. I’d asked if the light had changed beforehand, but I wasn’t in fact expecting you to say that you’d experienced the enhancement of colour which can sometimes precede a vision. I was thinking along much more prosaic lines, and what I had in mind was a very slight shift in the quality of the light – as if a cloud, for instance, had passed over the sun.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I thought for a moment. ‘But there were no clouds,’ I said. ‘It was a perfect morning.’

‘So there was no change in the light at all?’

‘None.’

Was there any slight change in sound? Did you notice, for instance, that the birds had ceased to sing?’

‘I didn’t notice any bird-song either before or during the appearance – although I suppose it must have been going on,’ I said confused, ‘because birds always sing in gardens.’

‘So there was no change in sound. Was there a slight change in temperature? Just before the appearance, did you feel either hotter or colder?’

I thought hard but could only reply in the hegative.

‘Were you aware of any new smell at that moment – possibly a strong smell such as burning rubber?’

‘Burning rubber!’ I stared at him. That’s a symptom of schizophrenia!’ I tried not to panic. ‘What are you getting at? What do you mean? What are you trying to –’

‘You’ve been studying the mind, haven’t you? Reading Jung, investigating the symptoms of mental illness –’

‘When you have a mind like mine you want to work out just what the hell’s going on!’

‘Yes, that’s very natural. Have you ever suffered from epilepsy?’

‘No. Do you think I’m crazy?’

‘I see no sign of mental illness.’

‘Do you think I’m having a nervous breakdown?’

‘I see no sign that you’re having a breakdown.’

‘Do you think I’m possessed?’

‘I see no sign of possession.’

‘Then what on earth’s happening to me?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do I take it that you weren’t aware of any unusual smell at the time of the appearance?’

‘No smell,’ I said, soothed by his tranquil, confident statements. ‘No change in light, noise or temperature.’

‘So you’re saying that this was all one reality; the humdrum experience of sitting on a garden bench flowed without break, change or interruption of any kind into the bizarre experience of seeing Christian dressed up as a monk.’

‘That’s correct. It was all one and all real.’

‘There’s one point that puzzles me: why do you think Christian wore his cowl up?’

‘Outdoor work. The cowl gives protection from the sun in summer, the wind in winter and the rain all the year round.’ ‘But it wasn’t excessively hot today, was it? About seventy, I’d say – very pleasant, unless one’s incarcerated in a small car as I was this afternoon.’

‘Some people can’t take much sun,’ I said. ‘My own skin, for example, is so fair that I always have to be careful in hot weather.’

‘But was Christian fair-skinned?’

That gave me a jolt. ‘He had brown hair and eyes,’ I said at last, ‘but he wasn’t all that dark. I admit he wasn’t as fair-skinned as I am but he wasn’t swarthy either.’

Lewis paused before saying: ‘There’s a peach-tree by that kitchen-garden wall and the branches grow roughly parallel with the ground. As Christian walked along, can you remember where the top of his head was in relation to the nearest branch?’

This defeated me. ‘No, I can’t. I was barely aware of the peach-tree while I was watching him.’

‘But you’re sure this was a man about six foot tall.’ ‘Positive.’

‘How tall are you yourself, Nicholas?’

‘Six foot.’

That could be useful tomorrow when we do the reconstruction ... Is that why you’re so certain of Christian’s height? You were aware during your meetings that you and he quite literally saw eye to eye?’

‘Yes, I remember looking at him in a mirror once and seeing we were the same. In height, I mean.’

Lewis was silent.

Immediately I became nervous again. ‘Have I said something peculiar? Was it the mirror? Schizophrenics can get obsessed with mirrors – they look at their reflections but fail to recognise themselves –’

‘Has that ever happened to you?’

‘No, but–’

Then don’t worry about it. Why worry about something which will probably never happen? Waste of energy. All right,’ said Lewis as the bell in the chapel began to toll for Compline, ‘I’ve only one more question to ask before we adjourn: why do you think Christian was carrying a rake as he headed for the kitchen-garden? I’m no gardener, but judging from my quick reconnaissance earlier I think a spade would be more appropriate than a rake at this time of year.’

‘Not necessarily. You’re getting hung up on the image of a gardener raking the autumn leaves, but in fact –’

‘Talking of images, let’s suppose for a moment that the rake was a symbol. How would you interpret that if you were a psychoanalyst?’

I said outraged: ‘Are you trying to imply this incident was just a dream?’

‘No. You’re reacting as if symbols only exist in dreams, but that’s not true; think of the historical life and death of Jesus where a unique number of powerful symbols met and merged. We actually deal all the time with symbols because the truths to which they point are beyond adequate expression in language.’

I knew this was true but I still felt he was downgrading the reality of Christian’s appearance. Obtusely I said: ‘I don’t see how you can say much about a mere rake.’

‘No?’ said Lewis. ‘Well, Freud would have thought it was a substitute for a penis, of course, and theorised that it represented the drive to sex. Adler, on the other hand, would have said it was substituting for a gun and represented the drive to power. And Jung ... now what would Jung have made of that rake? Slightly cruciform, isn’t it, except that the top of the cross is missing.’

I was hooked. ‘Jung would have seen both the man and the implement as an archetype,’ I said immediately. ‘The Christian form of the archetype is the shepherd with the crook. It represents the saviour, the redeemer, the one the little sheep has to have around if it wants to avoid getting eaten up by the big bad wolf.’

‘Poor little sheep,’ said Lewis. ‘It just can’t survive without that shepherd, can it? And what happens when the shepherd dies and isn’t around any more to keep the big bad wolf at bay?’

There was a profound silence.

I realised at once that I could protect myself by pretendingthat I only understood the conversation at its most facile level, but for a moment I was too stunned to speak. So subtle had Lewis been in extracting the symbolic description of my central problem that we were now in a situation where I knew that he knew and he knew that I knew that he knew, but we didn’t have to talk about it until I felt ready to do so. Consumed with admiration for his technique yet enraged that I had been so effortlessly read, understood and packaged for future counselling, I found I could only offer him the cold comment: ‘Sheep are very stupid animals. Humans are quite different.’

‘Quite different,’ agreed Lewis, ‘but nevertheless Jesus always spoke as if no sheep was so stupid that it ceased to matter, and no sheep was so lost that it couldn’t be found and brought home.’ He stood up and added over his shoulder as he moved to the door, ‘You’ll want to come with me to Compline, of course.’

I was unable to decide whether this was an order or a suggestion, but by that time I was too mesmerised to do anything but follow him downstairs.

In silence we headed for the chapel.