What Dreams May Come (12 page)

“All right,” I smiled at her. “I do appreciate your kindness and your company.”

“I’m happy to be with you.”

I looked at the different buildings as we crossed the square. I was about to ask about them when I accidentally bumped into another man. That’s not an apt description really. On earth, I would have collided with him, perhaps painfully. Here, I felt as though I’d struck a cushion of air. Then the man moved past me, smiling and patting me cordially on the shoulder.

I asked Leona what had happened and she told me that my body is surrounded by a field of energy which prevents collision. Only when contact is desired does the field neutralize itself—as when the man patted my shoulder to reassure me.

As we walked around the fountain, I asked Leona how the buildings were made. I was determined not to dwell on that all-important answer coming from the Office of Records.

The buildings, she told me, are designed by people who knew about such things during their lives or who learn about it in Summerland. They create the model image of a building in their minds, which appears from the matrix. They correct the model as needed, then instruct those who were builders on earth—or who learned to be here—and, together, all their minds in unified concentration, they cause the matrix to produce a full-scale impression of the structure. They stop before it’s completed, correct to perfection, then proceed until solidification takes place.

“They just concentrate on empty space?” I asked, the notion flabbergasting me.

“It isn’t really empty, of course,” she said. “They stand in front of the desired site and ask for help from the higher spheres. Soon a beam of light descends from above, another concentrated beam is projected by the builders and designers and, in time, the conception takes on density.”

“They look so real” I said.

“They are real,” she replied. “And, albeit created by thought, far longer-lasting than those on earth. Here, there’s no erosion and materials never decay with age.”

I asked her if anyone lived in the city and she answered that those who preferred to live in cities on earth prefer it here as well. Of course, the disadvantages they endured on earth no longer exist: no crowding, no crime, no unbreathable air, no traffic commotion.

Mostly though, she told me, cities are centers for instruction and study: Schools, colleges, universities, art galleries, museums, theatres, concert halls, libraries.

“Are plays written on earth performed in the theatres?” I asked.

“If they’re appropriate,” she said. “Nothing that’s sordid though. Nothing conceived merely to harrow an audience.”

“Albert mentioned a line from a play he couldn’t have seen on earth,” I said.

“He may have seen it here,” she told me. “Or on earth. It’s possible, when one is advanced enough, to visit earth.”

“And its people?”

Leona’s smile was understanding. “You’ll be able to see her later if you wish,” she said. “By then, you may not want to though.”

“Not want to?” I couldn’t understand how she could say such a thing.

“Not from a lessening of devotion,” she explained, “but because your presence can do no good for her and—well, because descending to that level isn’t all that pleasant “

“Why?” I asked.

“Because—” She hesitated for a moment or two before going on. “—one has to lower one’s entire system to adjust to it—which can be physically and mentally uncomfortable.” She smiled and touched my arm. “Better to avoid it,” she said.

I nodded but couldn’t believe I’d ever want to avoid it. If, in addition to knowing when Ann was due to join me, I could actually see her from time to time, the wait could be endurable.

I was about to ask another question when I noticed that— as Leona had predicted—the nimbuses of light were starting to fade and I could see the people more clearly. I confess— not to my credit—that I felt momentary surprise at seeing other races as well as my own. I realized, then, how rarely I’d seen them in my life—especially at home—and how terribly limiting a view that creates.

“What would a rabid segregationist say?” I asked as we walked by a black man, exchanging smiles with him.

“I doubt if he’d even be in Summerland,” Leona said. “Anyone who couldn’t understand that what’s important is a man’s soul, not the color of his skin, would never be content here.”

“All races living in harmony,” I said. “It could only happen here.”

I was taken back to see a sad smile on her face. “I’m afraid that’s true,” she agreed.

When we passed a man with one arm, Leona saw my look of startlement as I turned to stare at him.

“How can that be?” I asked. “Isn’t this a place of perfection?”

“He’s a newcomer too,” she explained. “In life, he only had one arm and, since the spirit body responds entirely to mind, it reflects his conviction about the missing arm. Once he understands that he can be whole, the arm will appear.”

I said it once again, Robert. I’m sure you would have too. “Incredible.” I looked at the city and its resplendent beauty and felt a burst of happiness. Now I could be newly fascinated by everything around me because, within a short while, I’d know when Ann was to join me.

No certainty of resolution

WE WERE APPROACHING a two-story structure which, like the others, had the texture and translucence of alabaster, which Leona told me was the Hall of Literature.

We ascended the broad steps and went inside. Like the Office of Records, there were many people inside but almost total silence. Leona escorted me into a large, high-ceilinged room the walls of which were shelved with books. Spaced throughout the room were large, attractive tables, dozens of people sitting at them, reading.

I realized, abruptly, why it was so quiet, the main source of sound absent since we conversed with our minds. “We can talk and not disturb anyone,” I said. “A perfect library.”

She smiled. “That’s right.”

I looked around the room. “What kind of books are these?”

“The histories of every nation on earth,” she told me. “As they were though—nothing suppressed.”

“That must be an eye-opener,” I said, thinking of the near impossibility, on earth, of trying to establish the literal truth of history.

“It is indeed,” Leona agreed. “The history books on earth are largely fictional.”

We walked around the room and I noticed that, like every object in Summerland, the books, too, emitted a faint yet visible radiation.

“Are there books here that were published on earth?” I asked, remembering my scripts in Albert’s home.

Leona nodded. “As well as some that are yet to be published there.”

“How does that work?”

“The contents will be impressed on the brains of living persons.”

“Will they know they didn’t really write the book?”

“That’s a rather complicated question,” Leona said. “Generally speaking, however, they don’t know.”

“I’d like to read one of those,” I said.

“They’re not usually available,” she told me. “Those who read them might, in some way, mar them, how I’m not exactly sure. I wanted to read a particular book once, though, and was told that, since everything here is mental, my thoughts might alter the contents of the book.”

She took me to another room which was devoted to books on psychic science, the occult, metaphysics. Walking among the racks, I felt emanations from them more powerful than those in the history room.

She stopped at one of the racks and pulled out a volume, handing it to me. Its vibrations were rather unpleasant. “It’s customary to show first visitors this book or one like it,” Leona said.

I turned the book to read the title on its spine: The Fallacy of Afterlife. Despite the uncomfortable sensation the book imparted, I had to smile. “Ironical to say the least,” I said.

As I returned the book to its shelf, I began to feel a sense of anxiety about Ann again. She didn’t believe in afterlife; I’d heard her say it. Was it possible that she might, literally, refuse to accept the evidence of her senses?

“I wouldn’t be concerned about that,” Leona said. “She’ll believe in you. The rest will follow.”

I won’t describe our full tour of the Hall of Literature; it is not really part of my story. Suffice to say, the building and its contents were unendingly impressive. When I commented on the intimidation of all that knowledge to be studied, Leona reminded me that I had unlimited time in which to study it.

As we left the building, I turned to her questioningly.

“I don’t think they’d be quite ready yet,” she said.

“All right,” I nodded. Patience, I told myself. A little more time and you’ll know.

“Would you like to see one of our art galleries?” Leona asked.

“Fine.”

She squeezed my arm. “It’ll be very soon now.”

We exchanged a smile. “I apologize for being so selfish,” I said, “I haven’t asked a single question about you.”

“There’s lots of time for that,” she replied. “Your first priority is your wife.”

I was about to reply when another surprise occurred. A woman passed us with a strange, drifting kind of movement, looking as though she were in a coma, walking underwater. For several moments, she reminded me of the waxy image of myself I’d seen at the seance and I felt a chill. “Who is she?” I asked.

“She’s still alive,” Leona said, “her spirit self is journeying here in sleep. It happens now and then.”

“She doesn’t know she’s here?”

“No. And probably won’t remember when she wakes.”

I turned to watch the woman move off slowly and mechanically and saw a silver cord attached to the crown of her head, trailing into the air before it faded. “Why don’t people remember?” I asked.

“Because the memory is in the spirit mind and the physical brain is unable to tap it,” Leona answered. “I’ve been told that there are people who astral journey here and are entirely conscious of it both during and after but I’ve never seen one.”

I watched the woman moving away and couldn’t help thinking: If Ann could do that. Even if she didn’t know it was happening, I could see her for a short while, maybe even touch her. The thought filled me with a longing so acute that it was almost physical. Remembering her warmth and softness against me, I could actually feel it in my flesh.

With a pained sound, I turned back to Leona to find her smiling understandingly. I returned the smile with effort. “I’m not good company, I know,” I told her.

“Of course you are.” She took my hand. “Come on, we’ll take a brief look at the gallery, then find out when she’ll be with you again.”

The building ahead was circular, its marblelike exterior carved with beautiful designs of flowers and foliage.

Its interior was massive, containing what seemed to be an endless, curving gallery, the walls of which were hung with great paintings. Groups of people stood appreciating and examining, many of them teachers with their students.

I recognized a Rembrandt and commented on what a perfect reproduction it was. Leona smiled. “The one on earth is the reproduction,” she told me. “This is the original.”

“I don’t understand.”

The painting in front of me was the one Rembrandt had in mind, she explained; as perfect as his genius could envision it. What he did on earth to reproduce that perfect mental image was subject to the limitations of his brain and body and created with materials subject to decay. This was his unmitigated vision—pure and eternal.

“You mean all artists on earth are only reproducing paintings already in existence here?”

“In existence because they created them,” Leona said. “That’s what I meant when I said that the question regarding whether a person knows that he or she is receiving creative impressions is rather complicated. Rembrandt’s thoughts first created this painting from the matrix, then he reproduced it in physical terms. If we were experts, we’d be able to see how much more perfect this painting is than the one on earth.”

Every work of art here is alive. Colors glow with reality. Each painting seems almost—not a good description but the closest I can come—three-dimensional, possessing all the qualities of relief. From a short distance, they look like real scenes rather than flat representations.

“In many ways, I think that the happiest people here are the artists,” Leona told me. “Matter here is so subtle yet so readily manipulated. The artist’s creativity can be fulfilled without limitation.”

I tried hard to maintain an interest in what she was showing and telling me—and it was fascinating. Still, in spite of all attempt, thoughts of Ann kept creeping back. So much so that, when Leona said, “I think we can find out now,” I uttered an uncontrollable sound of relief. “Can we go there by thought?” I asked.

She smiled and took my hand. This time, I didn’t close my eyes and still couldn’t follow it. We were in the gallery; I blinked; and the man from the Office of Records was in front of us.

“Your wife is scheduled to cross over at the age of seventy-two,” he told me.

Twenty-four years, was my immediate thought. It was such an appallingly long time.

“Remember that time is measured differently in Summerland,” he reminded me. “What would seem an eternity on earth can pass very quickly here if you’re active.”

I thanked him and Leona and I left the Office of Records.

I continued walking with her. I made conversation. I smiled and even laughed. But something was wrong. I kept thinking: everything is settled now. In twenty-four years we’ll be together again. I’d involve myself in study and activity, prepare a home for us. Exactly what she’d like. On the ocean. With a boat. Everything was settled.

Why, then, was there no assurance? No certainty of resolution?

This dismaying connection

THE HORRIBLE TURNING point occurred soon afterward; I cannot express the precise interval. On earth, it might have been a week, perhaps less; I cannot say. I only know the shock came dreadfully soon.

I’d been disappointed that I’d have to wait so long for Ann. Albert told me not to dwell on the waiting aspect of it but the certainty of its occurrence.

I tried; I really did. I made an effort to convince myself that my disturbance was unwarranted, that it had no bearing on Ann’s situation.