The Orpheus Descent (49 page)

The darkness gives me strange sight. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, but I can peer over the rim of the world and see all space combined. I can dip in my hand and scoop up bubbles of time, twisting them this way and that to see how they catch the light. In a glistening bowl, I see the gilded city, its temples proud on the high rock of the acropolis. There are ships in the harbour beyond the walls, but I can’t see the flags. Is it Athens?

I think about how I got here.

I can hear the silence and see through darkness. I’m awake and dreaming. I’m dead, and more alive than I’ve ever been.

A door opens and spills light into the room. It’s dim, from down the end of a long deep tunnel. A shadow appears against it. Far away, I see a man coming towards me. He’s short and stooped, moving awkwardly. It takes him a long time to reach me, though the only instrument I have to measure it by is the beat of my heart. The closer he comes, the brighter the light gets, like a star coming down to earth, until by the time he reaches me I can barely stand to look at it.

And as he gets here, I realise he’s been with me all the time.

He reached up to turn on the head-torch. All he felt was mud-matted hair. The torch must have slipped off somewhere in the tunnel.

But a worm can still read the dark by the twitching of its hairs. He found steps. He slithered up them. He felt space, sweet air spreading around him like a clearing in a forest. After the tunnel and the mud, it made him feel as if he was floating. He could smell fruit in the air, the first green thing he’d encountered since he left the mainland.

A sudden and irresistible tiredness hit him. He felt himself sinking. The rock had opened below him, soft as a mattress, and he was falling into it. He tried to stay awake, certain there was something he had to remember just out of reach.

Everything we are is memory.
Who said that?

A door opened in the ceiling. Dull orange light spilled through, and the sound of rushing water. He was still sinking, but the light was getting brighter. It hardened the mud that caked his skin, baking him into it. Through the holes around his eyes, he saw a figure walking towards him out of the light. Was it Lily? The light behind her was too bright. He tried to reach out to her, but the clay coffin wouldn’t let him move.

She smiled. The coffin cracked open and flew into a thousand pieces of light.

Many men have risked the descent to the underworld in hopes of being reunited with their loved ones. So should a true philosopher, convinced the wisdom he loves is in the underworld, still fear death? He should know that only by dying can he find wisdom in her purest form, and so begin his journey gladly.

Plato
, Phaedo

White light, filling my horizon. Featureless brightness, nothing else. So perfect, there’s nothing for the eye to catch on. No perspective, no distance, no edge or shape to limit it. It could be right in front of my nose or a million miles away, but it wouldn’t matter because it doesn’t change. It simply
is
.

What is it?
says the Voice of Reason.

Where are we?
says the Voice of Will.

How do I get it?
says the Voice of Desire.

My questions vanish into the light. The voices burn away like mist. All that’s left is me and the light, like conjugating verbs.
I am. It is.

The world realigns. I’m lying on my back staring up at the sun. By rights I should be blind, but in fact I can see more clearly than ever, as if I’ve spent all night in a smoky room and just stumbled out into a spring morning.

I sit up. I’m in a grassy meadow among asphodels and daffodils. There are no trees. A river flows by, winding gently towards a lake in the distance. High mountains ring the horizon.

And there, standing over me, is Socrates. He’s exactly as I remember him – only more so. The memory fixed in my mind was a statue: this is the living man. His cheeks and forehead bulge even more than before. His nose is wider, his beard wilder, his stance more bandy-legged than ever. And his eyes are bright as dawn.

I’m still wondering whether I dare touch him when he reaches down, pulls me to my feet and claps me in an embrace that seems to last forever. Like two halves of a circle coming together without a join.

‘You came,’ he says. ‘I’m so happy.’ He stands back, holding me by my shoulders. He can hardly reach – I’d forgotten how short he is. ‘You look well.’

I’m surprised. The last time I checked, my body was a mess of bruises, grazes and cuts. Now they’ve all gone and my skin is clean. The wound on my arm has healed with only a thread of a scar.

Socrates is in a hurry. He leads me down to the river, where a flat boat waits tied up on the bank. We get in. I sit in the middle, while Socrates stands in the back and poles us along.

The water is a deep, nourishing brown, rich with sediment. ‘What river is this?’ I ask.

‘It’s called Acheron.’

I lie back and stare at the sky. It’s different to what I’m used to. I can see the curve of the heavens like a glass dome bending down to the mountains that surround the plain. The sun looms much larger than it does in our world; lower, as if pressed against a ceiling.

‘I’m sorry you had such a difficult journey,’ says Socrates.

There’s an awkward question between us, but I feel I have to broach it. ‘Am I dead?’

The pole catches in mud, and Socrates nearly goes overboard. When he’s righted himself, I can see he’s smiling. I’ve asked the right question.

‘What is it that’s inside the body that makes it alive?’

‘The soul.’

‘And wherever the soul resides, it brings that thing to life.’

‘Yes.’

‘And the opposite of Life is …?’

‘Death.’

‘Good. Now, do you think that any concept can admit its opposite?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, in numbers we have a concept of Odd and a concept of Even.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there anything odd about Evenness – or vice versa? Or are they totally incompatible?’

‘I suppose they’re mutually exclusive.’

‘Indeed. Three is never and in no way Even, and two is never Odd. Now, we said that Death is the opposite of Life. Can there be any aspect of Life that admits Death?’

‘They’re mutually exclusive.’

‘So the soul, being Life, can’t contain any portion of Death?’

‘That follows.’

‘Which makes the soul …?’

I’ve never considered it before, but now the word comes out as naturally as breathing. ‘Immortal.’

‘Not like Homer’s shades, which are just ghosts or reflections of the man who died. I’m talking about the real soul who lived on earth. The person we are.’

I try to comprehend the vastness of what he’s said. But there are also practical implications. If the soul is immortal …

‘I can’t be dead.’

He nods.

‘That’s reassuring to know.’

A shadow crosses his face, though there isn’t a cloud in the sky. He leans hard on the pole. ‘Not as much as you’d think.’

He sat up. The world turned and came to rest under the feet of the woman in front of him. The red sun soared up above her and he could see her clearly at last.

Lily.

She wore a sleeveless summer dress brightly printed with orange and silver flowers, her hair tied back behind her neck. Her feet were bare, her smile brighter than the sun.

He felt as though he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. He tried to get up, but then Lily was kneeling beside him in the grass, arms around him, planting kisses over every inch of his face. She found his lips and opened them, fusing her mouth with his. Cool as spring water.

He didn’t know how long they kissed. Afterwards, when she released him, he looked into her face. It was different. Subtle lines, marks that had crept in over the years, had vanished. She was more innocent, more hopeful, than the Lily who shared his life now.

She was Lily the way she’d been when he first met her, he realised.

After another kiss, she pulled him up and led him to the top of a ridge that looked down into a river valley. A square, flat-roofed house sat at the bottom next to the river, in the shade of a white cypress tree growing beside it. Two pillars framed the front door. A little way off, a line of black poplars grew straight to the sky. Something about them made him uneasy.

‘What’s over there?’

Anxiety made her face even paler. ‘You have to stay away from there.’

‘Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

They went down to the house. Lily opened the door. Jonah crossed the threshold between the pillars – and came home.

He was standing in the front room of their flat in Wandsworth. Everything was exactly as he’d left it, down to the stack of papers he’d left on the floor looking for his passport, and the empty cereal bowl from his last breakfast.

But not quite everything. There was an empty space on the wall where his CD rack had been, and the guitar in the corner had been replaced with a potted rubber plant. Music played from the kitchen, mariachi horns and Johnny Cash lamenting how he’d fallen into a ring of fire. Had he left the radio on?

‘Is this real?’

Lily went to the kitchen and got two cans of beer from the fridge. They sat together on the sofa. Jonah took her hand in his and stroked it. The beer can had left it ice cold.

‘I looked for you everywhere,’ he said.

He stared into her eyes. Her pupils were wider than he ever remembered, deep wells he could forget himself in forever.

‘How long can we stay here?’

‘As long as you like.’

In the kitchen, Johnny Cash gave way to the Righteous Brothers and ‘
Unchained Melody’
. Lily stood up and extended her hand.

‘Shall we dance?’

He was too tired, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He held her and shuffled in awkward circles around the room.
Step, step, step, step
. She sagged into him, but however close he hugged her something seemed to muffle the feeling.

The Righteous Brothers played out. A DJ mumbled something that led on to Elvis Presley, ‘
Heartbreak Hotel’
.

Jonah went to the kitchen and turned off the radio.

‘I like that song,’ Lily protested, without force.

He put his hands on her cheeks and held her head still, trying to find the bottom of her poppy-black eyes. All he could see was his own reflection.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean? We’re together again.’

She stepped away. She bent her arms behind her back and unzipped her dress. It fell to the floor and she was naked underneath: the same firm, young body he’d seen the first time he ever undressed her. Except for her skin, which was pale white, as if the Mediterranean sun had never touched it.

Jonah felt himself go hard. Over her bare shoulder, he saw the kitchen door swinging shut, caught by a breeze. It didn’t matter. In a moment, he’d never have to open it again.

Lily had teased apart the fly of his jeans and slipped her hand in. He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t concentrate on her.

‘When did you forget how to dance?’

Her hand stopped moving. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You used to be such a good dancer.’

‘I forgot.’

‘How about swimming? You still remember that, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.’

But she sounded frightened. He pushed her away and stared into her eyes.

‘Prove it.’

The back door was nearly shut. He ran to it and jammed his foot in the gap, just before it closed.

‘The neighbours,’ Lily said. ‘I’m naked.’

‘They won’t see.’

He forced open the door and stepped outside. Lily didn’t follow. She stood in the doorway, covering herself with her arms.

‘I can’t go out there.’ She sounded terrified. ‘Come back inside.’

A boat had been tied up at the bottom of the steps: a punt, one of the flat-bottomed boats that students liked to drink and show off in at Oxford. Jonah scrambled in, shipping water over the side.

‘Stay,’ Lily pleaded from the back door, and the anguish on her face took him back to that icy Oxford morning.
If you don’t turn around now, you’ll never see me again.

‘I’m sorry.’

He untied the rope and cast off into the current. He didn’t look back.

While we’ve been talking, the river’s been carrying us forward. Now, we come around a bend and it opens out into the lake I saw earlier. From the boat, it looks like a small sea, sunk into an enormous crater. A breeze picks up, moving the surface of the lake. Not in waves, but round in an enormous circle, like water draining down a plughole.

Socrates poles hard to get out of the current and lands us on a red sand beach. Other boats are drawn up here, though I can’t see any passengers. We scramble up an embankment, and suddenly we’re high up on the cliffs and I can look down into the bowl of the crater to see the whole lake. The muddy Acheron empties into it on my right; another river, blue-grey, comes in from the left. And we’re no longer alone. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, have got here before us. Men and women, children, walking together like a festival crowd. They’re all heading for a pair of giant stone pillars a little way off. Some of the people are dusty and weary, as if they’ve been on long journeys; others look radiantly pure. Everyone walks with his head bowed, as if contemplating some heavy decision.

‘Who are these people?’ I ask Socrates.

‘Souls.’

‘Where are they going?’

‘Come and see.’

We fall in with them. A few people recognise Socrates and murmur quiet greetings, though they don’t seem to notice me. Everyone’s looking ahead to the massive pillars. Now that we’re closer, I can see spidery lines covering the surface: at first I think they’re cracks, then I realise they’re tiny letters wrapped round and round the columns, covering every inch. It’s written in an alphabet I’ve never seen before, but somehow I find I can read pieces of it.

The words of Memory, carved in stone

For the hour of your death …

Now we’re near the front of the crowd. Between the columns, I can see two figures sitting on thrones. They’re larger than life, clothed in white with wreaths on their heads and golden sceptres in their hands. As each person steps out in front of them, the sceptres twitch, left or right. The souls pass between the pillars, which are like the frame of an enormous door, and go where they’ve been directed.